


Be All My Sins Remembered

by NoxDelta



Series: 2B or Not [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxDelta/pseuds/NoxDelta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anxiety and irrational worries have been your constant companion, but you had thought that you had things relatively figured out. Maybe you can't hold a conversation, but you're good at avoiding people; that is, until your school introduces a scholarship program for monsters. Now, two eccentric skeletons have moved into your once peaceful residence and hiding isn't as easy as it used to be.</p><p>The tall one is loud, the short one makes you uneasy, and the year has only started.</p><p>(Note that Reader is named but rarely referred to as such, for plot reasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Human in the Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 2B, our Reader, lives a life of solitude and is concerned about her new roommates.

It begins, as it often does, with a large and unwelcome change.

You can hear the sound of a car pulling up outside the building and you grimace. It is the beginning of the university's summer semester, and as such most of the student co-op buildings are emptied out. Most are not taking summer classes besides a few mature students like yourself, and you had been enjoying a quiet and clean house. New housemates weren’t expected until late august.

You peek out of the window tucked into the back of your room. It’s a white van with a tacky picture of moving men on the outside of it, which confirms your suspicions. The familiar ugly clench in your chest prompts you to move away from the window before you’re seen; if you’re lucky, whoever it is will have moved in by the time you need to go and buy groceries.

It’s a common routine by now, this struggle between survival and braving human contact. Your therapist calls you socially anxious and extremely introverted, which are largely true, but it doesn’t truly encompass the intense fear of embarrassment or of being awkward. Your former roommates were mostly quiet themselves and had social lives outside of the cramped Victorian residence, and you had hoped this would let you get to know them from a comfortable distance. Sadly your social skills swing from trying too hard to complete avoidance with no grey area, and most had left the building barely knowing you were alive.

You can hear voices outside now, one of them being a co-op administrator.

“This is the building, of course. The front door is open most of the time because the rooms are locked, but we have campus security patrolling night and day. Only mature students occupy this particular building, and only one is here right now. I’ll introduce you to her.”

Shit.

Panic sets in and you quickly check your clothes; a ratty t-shirt and jeans, with no socks. Your hair is probably a mess too. You quickly rummage around in your closet for something decent and find a clean top and matching socks to throw on. The mirror attached to the closet door lets you breathe a little deeper, but your hair is frizzy from the humidity and no amount of patting will get it to behave. It’ll do for a quick hello. The important thing is that you do not come across as a completely disheveled loner who lives in the attic. Even if it’s kind of true.

The house is old, with six bedrooms cobbled together out of its aging frame. The hallway that leads to the staircase is only a foot wider than your door, and the only bathroom is on the landing below. Your own room takes up half of the attic, and the ceiling is slanted so that you can only stand straight in half of that. Still, it is peaceful, and has a pretty view of a city park. Most of your free time is spent in this room. Leaving it for the lower level is always a hassle, because the house has only one communal room; a tiny kitchen with fraying countertops and a cheap plastic table and chairs. The refrigerator is the only reason you use it.

You quietly descend the staircase and see the administrator gesturing to the various empty cupboards and to the door leading to the basement, where the washer and dryer are. He seems more cheerful than usual, and you wonder why until you take the last few steps and two people in the foyer. You freeze.

Skeletons.

There are two skeletons standing in the hallway; one of them tall and animated, the other short and slouching. Every horror movie you’ve ever seen flashes through your memory and your body, already keyed up, nearly breaks into an anxiety attack.

Why are there skeletons here?!

Your brain has stuttered but the administrator continues on until he turns and sees you, oblivious to your distress.

“Ah, this is the student I was telling you about. She lives in 2B.” The admin beams at you and you can only wonder if he has had his brains eaten by the skeletons and is trying to make you the next victim. Your face must show it because he clears his throat and turns his smile back to them. “These two gentlemen are Sans and Papyrus, your new roommates. They are part of the monster educational scholarship program at Ebott University.”

Monsters. That’s right; you had heard about there being an initiative to better integrate monsters into human society, and had seen posters around the school for some new classes. Mostly on human history and technology, but there were also workshops for monster sensitivity training. Prejudice was rampant but officially frowned upon.

Logic takes back control of your brain and you take a closer look at the two. They are still definitely skeletons, but they are wearing clothes. The taller one wears a t-shirt and shorts, which allows you a pretty good look at his joints; there are no tendons, and you could swear that there is space between the bones themselves, as if held together by some invisible force. You’ve heard about monster magic in the news, but this flies in the face of every science known to man.

You only have a second to ponder it though, because the tall one beams and waves enthusiastically at you.

“HELLO, HUMAN OF 2B. I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS!” He is loud, and you jump, but he doesn’t notice. “WE SHALL BE GREAT FRIENDS!”

Your smile has been pasted on throughout this whole encounter and you are happy it doesn’t waver. You give a little wave back. “Hi.”

Sans, the shorter one you guess, is smiling too, but it isn’t reassuring. His mouth is very wide for his skull and the corners barely move, as if held in place by pins. Two lights make up his eyes and they scrutinize you. Every hair on your body stands on end, and you fret that he has noticed your discomfort.

“hey, 2B.” He’s wearing a blue hoodie and his hands are shoved in his pockets, but one waves as well. “betcha we’re going **_2B_** pals.” His voice is deep where the other’s is scratchy, and lazy where the other’s is passionate. You register the pun and politely say “Heh.” It is a little breathless because your heart hasn’t completely wound down yet.

Monsters are a relatively new phenomenon. Two years ago they had appeared from Mt. Ebott and sent the world into a frenzy. For the first year everything on T.V was about Monsters; news, politics, comedy, entertainment. The excitement was simmering down with the Supreme Court decision that all laws applied equally to Monsters, but it’s rare to actually see them in person. Your confusion might also be attributed to the fact that you had never heard of a skeleton monster before. It was usually the King, Asgore, or Mettaton the celebrity in the media.

It occurs to you that you are staring and your cheeks flare up, along with a wrenching feeling of shame. They probably thought you were an idiot.

An awkward silence might have reigned but Papyrus hefts up two suitcases- one in each arm, you note with surprise, because how does a skeleton do that without muscles?- and demands, “COME, BROTHER! WE MUST HURRY WITH THE LUGGAGE OR ELSE WE CANNOT MAKE A CELEBRATORY SPAGHETTI DINNER!”

At last, the cue that you can leave without offending someone. You are about to turn around when the admin asks for you to write your name and number on the little welcome pamphlets he is giving to the skeletons, and you distantly hear him explain that it is an emergency number so that the brothers won’t be locked out. The implication is that you are practically a permanent fixture of the house, and you might have been offended if it weren’t for the distraction of the two skeletons claiming the two ground-level rooms. Papyrus has already started filling his room with boxes, and you really aren’t sure what to think of his boisterous energy.

You fill out your information and then the admin is handing Sans the pamphlets and gushing about what a good neighbourhood they’ve chosen, but when you grab the stair railing you can feel eyes on your back. You cast one last glance in his direction and, yes, the slouching skeleton is watching you. His expression hasn’t changed this entire time so you have no idea what he is thinking, but your eyes have been locked for a full three seconds now. Your mouth quirks, you wave meekly and try to walk up the stairs as casually as you can.

The safety of your room is little comfort as soon as your brain begins to replay the encounter; every agonizing, embarrassing detail. You barely said a word the entire time, and were definitely caught staring. A normal person would have offered to help unload the truck, or show them around the building. Instead, you ran away like a coward. It wouldn’t surprise you if they already thought of you as strange and awkward.

You run your hand down your face and try to relax. The smart, courageous thing to do would be to apologize for being nervous and be courteous. Maybe ask them questions, or talk about the university. But even as you think of it, fear of screwing up starts to rear its ugly head, and you decide that maybe it would be easier to just let them go about their business. They surely have more important things to do than watch a grown woman fumble a basic conversation.

Your phone beeps and rattles your desk, breaking you from your inner thoughts. You sit, touch the screen and find a notification from your mother. It is never anything but good news on her end, as she is recently engaged and loves to inform you of all the wedding plans.

Flowers and invitations aren’t particularly interesting but it is nice that she is happy. It does, however, fill you with visions of a crowd of people all asking how a girl like you is all alone at yet another family function.

It puts your new situation in a somewhat more survivable light. Your previous housemates were always quick to immerse themselves in the city and school without minding your preference for solitude, so it stands to reason that your new ones will too. Surely, you think, in a few hours they will have forgotten all about your blunders and fall into a peaceful routine that you can politely avoid.

As the afternoon passes, however, you begin to give up hope for silence at all.

The sounds of clattering pots and pans ring throughout the house, coming from the grates. Papyrus has a tendency to crow in laughter, a sort of “Nyeh heh heh!” that you thought only existed in cheesy cartoons. You assume Sans is with him because Papyrus pauses once in a while and continues as if spoken to.

There is also a distinct smell of smoke that causes worries to flare up yet again. What if they set off the sprinklers? What if they burn the house down?

You decide to take deep breaths. It has all been a little too much to handle in one day, and rationally you know that though your new roommates are… odd, you aren’t in any danger. They’re adults, going to the university, so they are not going to flay you alive or set the kitchen on fire. So long as there is a comfortable average distance between you and no huge surprises, you’ll survive.

Hopefully.

A half-finished essay yet remains on your laptop screen, blaring at you with empty white space. This is what you can control, you’re reminded, so you try to settle down again and continue the process. It’s tedious and repetitive, but as the black is etched into the white you can feel the electricity in your veins seeping away. Your work isn’t due for two weeks but the process is soothing and fulfilling. When it is done you can look forward to a little relief and a feeling of accomplishment.

Typing in silence, the clock ticks away another half hour before you realize that the kitchen has gone deathly quiet. You stop typing and listen for a moment, hearing a succession of thudding sounds.

Footsteps.

You jolt in your seat when your door vibrates with three sharp knocks.

You stand up from your desk and hurry over, quickly peeking through the peephole; you get an eyeful of a bright red t-shirt. It’s Papyrus, you think, and you pale.

“HUMAN!” He calls, and you wince. He is too loud, much too loud, and you unlock the door and open it.

“Hi, Papyrus-” You start, but a plate of food is shoved into your hands. His hand-bones touch yours and you only barely hide your flinch; not just because the cool bone feels very strange, but because you really don’t like to be touched without some warning. He doesn’t notice, merely placing his hands on his hipbones and smiling happily.

“HOUSEMATE! YOU ARE MOST WELCOME TO THE DELICIOUS CULINARY MASTERPIECE THAT I, PAPYRUS, HAVE MADE FOR YOU!” His volume makes you want to shrink, but he seems very sincere, and you look down at the dish. It is spaghetti all right, with normal-looking noodles and a plain sauce and a sprinkling of parmesan. Pretty appetizing, you have to admit, but the portion is intimidating; it’s enough for two meals.

“Um, thank you.” You hope your smile is grateful enough despite its twitchiness, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Papyrus has already puffed out his chest in satisfaction. How that works you have no idea; you don’t think he has lungs. Or a stomach, for that matter.

“YOU MUST COME DOWN AND PLAY A GAME WITH US! WE BROUGHT A BOARD GAME THAT IS CALLED ‘TROUBLE’, THOUGH I MUST ASSURE YOU IT IS NOT ABOUT ACTUAL TROUBLE, JUST PIECES ON A BOARD.”

Your chest seizes.

“That’s ok. I have a lot of homework due tomorrow.” The lie is easy and well-practiced, but the sudden look of dejection on the skeleton’s face is quite alarming. It makes you feel as if you’ve just told a child that there is no Santa Claus. Even so, you are sure at this point that you would spend the entire time mumbling and sweating and feeling like a fool. What if you say something stupid and offend them?

“OH.” Papyrus frowns, but brightens soon after. “WELL THEN, PERHAPS TOMORROW?”

The muscles in your throat are continuing to tighten. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

“If I’m free, sure.” You lie again, with a happier skeleton to show for it this time. He bounds back down the stairs with a wave and you quickly shut the door and lock it.

This is going to be a long year.


	2. Smoke Detectors and Invisible Coffee Shops

The next morning is as chaotic as the first. You wake up to the sound of the smoke detectors going off, which is pretty impressive because they aren’t very sensitive and did not react at all last night. Your next breath of air nearly chokes you; burnt sugar and cinnamon. No wonder. 

Coughing, you slip out of bed and fumble for the switch of your oscillating fan. The new flow of air alleviates the fresh baked hell you’ve awakened to, and you close the grates in your room for good measure. Your phone informs you it is eight in the morning, which is pretty close to your alarm’s set time, but even if it wasn’t there is no way you can fall asleep with the blaring of the smoke detectors in your ears. It is annoying, but your morning is already started and you get dressed.

Next, you grab your chair and unlock the door, heading out into the hall. The smell is worse, and the only option is to reset the detector on each floor. Once the chair is set underneath the screeching device you carefully climb atop it and press the second button until it finally goes quiet. There is still the one in the kitchen going off, but you can now hear Papyrus yelling. 

“SANS! HOW DO I QUELL THE RAGE OF THE CEILING MACHINE?”

You wait for a full minute, hoping that he will figure it out on his own. Alas, the detector continues to scream for relief, and at this point you are getting nervous that someone will call the fire department. You put your chair back into your bedroom and reluctantly head to the kitchen, where Papyrus is flailing at the detector. He is wearing pajamas with yellow ducks on them and a matching cap, which is odd in and of itself, and the pan on the stovetop continues to spew a black smoke. Pancakes, you assume.

It’s a struggle to think of something to announce your presence, but luckily Papyrus notices you soon enough. 

“AH, HUMAN!” Papyrus gestures wildly to the detector. “I CANNOT GET IT TO BE QUIET!” 

Has he never seen a smoke detector before? 

“Press the button on the right.” You murmur, pointing to the little panel on the cover. Papyrus brightens and again studies the detector while you carefully slip around the kitchen table and turn the stovetop off. The bottom of the pan is filled with charred batter, and you have to cover your nose with your sleeve to pick it up and drop it into the sink. A rinse kills the smoke, but the water turns a worrisome shade of black. 

Papyrus is tall enough that he can press the button without a chair or ladder, and then it finally goes quiet. You are about to pour in some soap and leave the rest to his devices, when suddenly two bony arms wrap around your body and squeeze.

“HUMAN, YOU ARE A GENIUS!” Papyrus announces and lifts you a good four inches off the ground. Panic lances through you like a spear and you freeze in his arms; it feels as if you’ve just been caught by a giant claw machine. The bone bites into your arms and back, not painfully, but so inhuman- and you can’t even handle human contact when it comes your back. 

Thankfully he sets you down just as quickly, but your arms still feel pinned to your sides when he releases you. He is talking, and you don’t really understand him through the blood rushing in your ears, but when you work up the nerve to turn around again you see that he hasn’t been talking to you for the last few seconds at all. Sans is in the hallway, widely grinning while Papyrus gushes on and on about your supposed prowess.

“WHILE YOU WERE BEING A LAZYBONES, OUR HOUSEMATE SHOWED ME HOW TO APPEASE THE… HUMAN, WHAT IS IT CALLED?” Papyrus gives you an expectant smile, as does Sans.

You blink, still wide-eyed. “Smoke detector.”

“WHAT A USEFUL DEVICE! A MACHINE, JUST TO HELP FIND SMOKE! WOWEE!”

“guess it really helps to _smoke_ things out.” Sans says without a beat, and you flinch when Papyrus yowls in dismay.

“SANS, CAN’T WE HAVE ONE DAY WITHOUT PUNS? JUST ONE?”

“well, i ain’t just blowin’ smoke here.”

“UGH! YOU’RE INSUFFERABLE!” 

“yep, guess i’m holding the smoking gun.”

The two of them continue to banter with such contrast that your head begins to hurt. Sans’s thing, it seems, is horrible puns. It would be bearable, reassuring even, if it didn’t set Papyrus into a tirade of movement and flapping arms and stomping feet. The two are so focused on one another that it’s pretty easy to back away, grab a banana from the counter and disappear upstairs again. 

Both of them are just… too much. Papyrus is loud and quick to invade your bubble, and Sans is just plain eery. Worse, you know that none of that is necessarily their fault; it could be that a normal person would enjoy the idea of eccentric roommates. As is, the knot in your chest only eases halfway up the steps and unravels fully as soon as you close your door.

You sigh inwardly and start packing your laptop and notebook into your backpack. Your therapist would have some things to say about conflict avoidance and overstimulation, you’re sure, but as of yet labels don’t seem to solve much of anything. You’re still the same nervous wreck you’ve always been, and now your crazy housemates have taken over the ground floor.

Your phone takes that moment to inform you that the bus will arrive in five minutes. The stop is two houses away, so you aren’t worried, but it means you have to quickly lock your bedroom door and hurry back down the stairs.

Sans is gone, probably in his room, and Papyrus is busying himself at the sink. The burnt smell is nowhere near gone, but it is offset somewhat by the smell of dish soap and Papyrus is humming as he scrubs at the pan. His back is turned to you and it affords you ample time to sneak past and slip out the front door without being noticed.

The bus shelter is empty, which is another small victory, and so you sit down on the bench with a glimmer of hope that the rest of the day will be less eventful. City people rarely take notice of each other unless something is odd, and you take very careful pains to ensure that you don’t stick out. The headphones in your bag complete your efforts, and you pull them out and plug them into your phone. It makes ignoring people much easier with music pumping into your ears, and coincidentally wards off the odd chatty bus-goer.

As soon as the bus arrives, you decide firmly, you can salvage your sense of order.

“hey.”

You squeak and fumble with the cord. The voice came from your right, and when you look, Sans is standing in the shelter’s entrance. He is grinning widely but you can’t recall if it is any different than earlier. Your nerves are too frayed.

“Um.” you say, at a loss. “Hi?”

Stupid.

Sans has his hands in his pockets, wearing the blue hoodie with the furred collar again, but it is paired with slacks and black shoes. He also has a bag slung across one shoulder. It’s a big change from pink slippers, but somehow still kind of odd, and it is probably because his clothes fit him as if he were a lot fleshier.

“guess we got class at the same time, huh?” He says, and you resist the urge to smack your forehead. Of course. It isn’t uncommon to meet fellow students for the bus that goes directly to the university, and he’s no different.

“I guess so.” You reply, a beat slower than you should have. He shows no reaction on his face, but seems a lot more relaxed than you feel. But then, he’s looked relaxed since you met him.

“here comes the bus.” He looks towards the road and, indeed, the bus rolls up right on time. You stand up and Sans steps aside, letting you go ahead and hop up through the waiting doors. You flash your student pass and the driver nods, but gives Sans an odd look as he does the same.

That strikes you as rude, but Sans shows no notion of bothered, so you pick a spot and sit down. The bus is mostly empty but for what you assume are more summer students, and nearly all of them are too engrossed in their phones to give either of you much mind. Normally you would enjoy having fewer passengers around, but Sans deliberately chooses the seat opposite from you when there are plenty of other options. The implication is clear, and you reluctantly put away your headphones.

Small talk. Your worst enemy.

“so. How long have you lived here?” Sans asks, and the bus starts to move. You smile weakly.

“Um, well, three years now.” Best to get the line of questioning off yourself quickly. Something generic should suffice. “Are you excited to start classes?”

Perfect.

“sure, but not as much as Papyrus. he’s starting culinary classes next week.”

“Oh, cool.” That is a little worrying. If he’s studying to be a chef, there’s a good chance the kitchen will never be empty. “And, uh, how about you?”

“me? ah, well, it’s a little complicated. i gotta take some courses to get a proper degree, but otherwise i’m a teaching assistant in the physics department.”

You do an admirable job of keeping the sudden awe off your face. Ebott University’s physics classes are widely considered the most difficult, and students in the department tell horror stories about the exams. Even getting entrance to the program is rare. He would have to be a pretty intelligent guy to be considered for that kind of position, regardless of scholarship. It is at odds with his earlier, slobbier appearance, but then you’ve barely known him for a full day. Maybe he’s actually a very hard worker.

“That’s… wow.” You manage, and ultimately blank on how best to express your opinion. Your hands fidget. “I hope you, um, have fun.”

“me too.” Sans’s head tilts to the side in what you assume is an inquisitive look. “you ok, 2B?”

He’s noticed. Shit.

Your face flushes and you try to think of a reason for your complete lack of social graces, but nothing comes easily. His forehead shifts and you think he might be getting worried, which only intensifies the sudden panic and you look for an escape.

Ultimately your eye catches on the upcoming bus stop and without thinking, you yank on the stop cord. It’s a good two stops before the school but you don’t care, you need to get out before you screw up again.

“I, uh, forgot to bring coffee.” The words spill out and you are up and at the exit in a flash. Your head is down so you don’t know what his reaction is, but by this point you can’t stop if you wanted to. “I gotta go grab some. See you later.”

The doors open and you are out long before you realize that there is no coffee shop for a full block. You stand at the stop, a little dazed, as the doors swing shut behind you and the bus continues on.

 _Coward_.

Tears brim in your eyes and your throat sticks, but you continue to breathe. There is no way you are going to burst into hysterics at the corner of a busy intersection, even if you did just make yourself look like a fool. He had barely said seven sentences, and now… well, if he thought you were a freak before, he wasn’t wrong.

What you wouldn’t give for a pillow to scream into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a lot planned for this story, so I hope you guys enjoy! Let me know what you think!


	3. In Which a Romance Novel Appears

The school week passes relatively quickly, and it is educational in more than a few ways. Classes themselves are par for the course, though you do notice an influx of monster students. A TV crew spent two days canvassing the students to get their reactions to the scholarship program, and according to your news app the overall opinion is positive.

However, you’re not naive enough to not notice how the passerby gawk at monsters coming and going from the university buildings. Some are, admittedly, fascinating to look at; you’ve seen ghosts, reptile-people and even a pale yellow squid monster in a large glass bowl of water, shuffling along on its arms. There are also difficulties in accommodating such differing biologies; some monsters are naturally slimy, and used to self-cleaning structures. As such the stairs have been shut down twice for rigorous cleaning just to make sure no one slips and breaks their neck.

Monsters are also apparently far more durable than humans. Some have used the roofs as a shortcut out of the building by jumping, and the record height is eight stories. Needless to say there was a bit of a panic, and several monster ambassadors were seen scolding the offending students. The school had requested several ambassadors from the King to help smooth things out until the school could fully educate campus security, and hire some monsters to flesh out the force.

None of this has much affected you personally, but since you now live with two monsters, you never know when something might.

Currently you are at the local grocery store, pondering over your meal choices for the coming week. Quick and easy are your preference, and so your basket is already sporting a few cans of soup and a bag of frozen veggies. Pre-selected portions, you’ve realized, are somewhat of a necessity now; Papyrus and Sans have almost taken over the fridge and cabinets. Papyrus spends a lot of his time outside of class cooking, and there is a full shelf in the fridge stacked with tupperware leftovers. That would be fine, but Sans compounds the issue by leaving half-empty bottles of condiments everywhere else. You have never seen a package of burgers or hot dogs that might require so much ketchup and mustard, and nothing Papyrus makes requires it, but you aren’t going to ask.

You take your groceries to the cash register and stand in silence while the teenager swipes the barcodes. You’ve seen each other dozens of times, but she is your favorite attendant because she doesn’t try to comment on your choices or ask about your day. You can just thank her, pack up your food and leave without a fuss.

Arriving at home, however, you have to brace yourself. If Papyrus sees you, he’s going to try and rope you into a conversation. He’s so nice that it is almost as painful for you to avoid him as it would be to try and chat, so you would rather just go unnoticed altogether. He has already knocked on your door several times this week, asking if you would come downstairs for one thing or another, and every time you make up an excuse. Sans, by contrast, you have not spoken to since Monday on the bus.

You push open the front door and are relieved and annoyed in equal measure. Relieved because Papyrus is not in the kitchen, and annoyed because the hallway is currently littered with about three pairs of socks and an empty bottle of relish.

Sans.

On top of his takeover of the fridge, he has a tendency to leave things lying around. Just yesterday you found a hoodie in the sink in the bathroom, which struck you as doubly odd because you haven’t heard or seen either skeleton use it this whole week.

You sigh and step over the laundry on your way to the kitchen table, setting the bag of groceries down. It wouldn’t bother you so much, except that a member of the residence staff comes by once a week to check if basic chores have been done around the house. Cleaning is part of the residence’s requirements for staying, and if the house is a wreck the occupants can be fined. The visit is always planned for the Saturday around noon, but based on Sans’s observed habits, he may not remember or even have noticed.

Still, it is his first week here, and you don’t want to be scolded. So you pick up the socks and the relish bottle, tossing the latter into the recycling bin and taking the former downstairs to the laundry room. A spare basket sits in the corner, so you drop the offending articles inside and head back upstairs to deal with your groceries.

At the top of the stairs, however, you falter. Sans is at the kitchen table, setting down some textbooks and unpacking his laptop. You are irrationally annoyed- doesn’t he have a desk in his room?- but then remind yourself that he has as much right to the kitchen as anyone. Not everyone enjoys solitude like you do, as much as that might simplify things.

You curse your bad luck; there is no way to avoid him, not with your food still needing to be put away. It takes a moment to steel yourself before you take the last couple of steps, and Sans looks up just as he makes himself comfortable.

“huh.” he says. His expression is inscrutable. “i thought Paps was home.”

Well, you can’t blame him for that. The kitchen is hardly your area of comfort. “Ah, no, it’s… just me. I think he’s still at school?”

Sans nods. “yeah, s’why I was surprised.” He gestures to the hall. “did you pick up my stuff?”

“Oh, well, yes.” You fidget sheepishly. “I didn’t know if you were back, and, uh, there’s someone from the office coming in to check things tomorrow, so I thought… just, um, yeah.” You hate how your voice stammers, but at least the information came out in the right order.

“thanks. my cleaning skills are kind of crumb-y.”

You blink, and he stares at you expectantly. The pun takes a second to process. “Oh, uh… right. No worries.”

The joke is a little funny, but you are too nervous to laugh. You wish you could, because Sans seems a bit disappointed in your response, if the tense pause is anything to go by. You stand there under his gaze, unsure of what to do, until you remember your groceries. You grab the soup cans out of the bag and set about putting them into the cupboard as casually as you can.

He is still quiet by the time the bag is empty. You don’t know which is worse; talking or being watched in silence.

“So, um.” You say, stuffing the grocery bag into the garbage bin. “I have a lot of work to do, so… see you later?”

“sure.” He replies, opening up his textbook. “see ya.” His tone is cool and measured, and you wonder if you might have offended him, but even as you cross the kitchen and head upstairs you can’t decide why. Is not laughing at a pun some kind of monster faux pas?

In the quiet of your room you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. It is getting ridiculous, this inability to manage a basic conversation. Humans are supposed to be social creatures, and yet you can’t help but feel… threatened. It took three months before you were able to talk to your therapist without wanting to cry. Your wants and ability to cope are at complete odds; you so dearly want to be able to have friends and hang out, but you always convince yourself out of doing anything that might help the situation. Then you feel guilty about it.

The night passes without fanfare, and so does the morning. It’s an opportunity to sleep in, which you take advantage of and enjoy until around ten am.

You are just waking up when you hear a loud, determined noise outside your window. It’s enough to make you jolt; only deliverymen or unfamiliar guests knock on the front door. The door is always open, night or day, and only bedrooms are locked.

If neither Sans nor Papyrus is home, you should probably answer it.

You groan miserably and set about getting dressed, until there is another loud rap, followed shortly by the door opening.

“Sans! How ya been, you big dork?”

The voice is feminine, but also booming and a tiny bit scratchy. You can’t hear the reply, but the door closes so you assume she and Sans have gone inside. You’re a little curious as to who this visitor is, but going downstairs is out of the question.

You resolve instead to take advantage of your free time and start on the book you bought last week. You pull it out of your bedside drawer and your mouth quirks at the cover; it’s a cheesy romance novel, which are your secret pleasure, though the artwork always seems to be lacking. You can empathize with the often shy, clumsy protagonists while enjoying the climb to confidence, sexual and otherwise.

You picked this particular one because the love interest is described as “clever” and “inventive”. You suppose there are only so many CEOs and cowboys the readers can take, but you certainly aren’t complaining. The first couple of pages draw you in, and you are getting quite comfortable when you hear the female voice through the grate.

“WHAT!?”

Angry and affronted; the worst combination of tones. Curiosity and a hint of concern prompt you to lean over the side of the bed and listen in. She’s quite loud, to be heard this far up.

“The fucking bitch! Do you want me to beat her up?”

Your brows furrow. Apparently Sans, and by extension his lady friend, are annoyed with someone. Maybe a teacher? The divide between young and old on the monster issue is well documented, so it’s a possibility that some of the professors are less accepting than the students. If that’s the case, you hope the situation is resolved peacefully and not with… whatever the woman is threatening.

The rest of the conversation is much quieter, and you can only hear mumbled syllables, so you close the grate’s slats and settle back with your book. The leading lady is meeting the love interest now; a handsome librarian.

She stumbles over her words, but in an adorable way. He makes a bad joke. She laughs.

The rest of the chapter is banter, but when the librarian makes another joke your interest turns to uneasiness. He is clever, smiles a lot and likes dumb puns. It reminds you too much of a certain skeleton to be comfortable, and you skim the next few chapters to see if worse is yet to come.

Oh god, he’s into physics.

You groan and stuff the book back into your bedside table. There is no way you can enjoy the story without constantly thinking about Sans, and if that isn’t a bad idea you don’t know what is. You’re guilty enough about avoiding him, and that is not a mental image you need in your head while trying to relax.

Especially since he probably thinks you’re a weirdo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for everybody's support! Please keep letting me know what you think, it makes a world of difference!


	4. Blackouts and Bad Jokes

Two long, quiet weeks pass.

The novelty of monster students has run its course for the most part, and despite a few struggles the campus is running smoothly. The culinary and physics department are in separate buildings, so you rarely see Sans or Papyrus at school, though you do hear their names once or twice in passing. They are apparently well known, having once been something like security at a place called “Snowdin.” Neither strikes you as particularly physically intimidating… well, Papyrus, at least.

Your life has fallen into more of a routine, now that you have a grasp of the skeletons’ schedules. Sans is gone most of the day, probably because he would need to attend several classes. He spends the rest of the time in his room, out or occasionally napping on the ratty couch on the bottom floor, in the area that separates the kitchen from the front door. You hesitate to call it a living room, because it’s minuscule and there’s no TV or tables. The few times you’ve had to pass by him while he’s on the couch, he hasn’t noticed you. That, or he hasn’t bothered to engage, which makes you feel… a tad disappointed. You don’t have a right to, but you do.

Papyrus is gone in the afternoon and back fairly late, so you avoid the kitchen in the morning when he is most likely to be there. Fridays, however, he apparently goes out in the morning and comes back around dinner time. You aren’t sure exactly what he does, because it’s a lot of time to be at school, but it affords you almost an entire day of quiet.

Seeing as its one of those days, you don’t expect to see Papyrus or Sans around at all. You’ve already done all your laundry and made yourself some instant noodles, and even felt comfortable enough to hum while doing it.

One mixed blessing is that with all the time you tend to spend in your room, you have few excuses not to get your homework done as soon as possible. That’s fine with you, though you do note it’s a bit embarrassing when homework is your hobby. Regardless, you put on your headphones and pull up the latest unfinished essay. You need about ten pages to fulfill the requirements, and you’ve got five done already, besides the work needed to finish the outline. It’s due Monday, but you figure that if you finish it tonight you can treat yourself to a new book or game.

You pass an hour in this way, music blaring and tapping on your keyboard. The assignment doesn't require much research, so you manage to fill out almost two pages. It’s just rewording information from the text and lecture, really, with a bit of spin. Tedious, honestly. You’re feeling pretty good about your progress… until the atmosphere is abruptly broken as your lights go out and your laptop blinks out.

“What the…?” You mutter in horror, sitting up. A quick glance around tells you that your alarm is out too, and the hallway light no longer peeks through the crack under your door.

It’s not without precedent; this has happened several times over the past year. The maintenance guys can’t determine the cause of why the breakers sometimes just flip by themselves, and it was implied last time that it was just a quirk of the house. It can happen if the air conditioner and washing machine are run at the same time, when it rains, or even if someone runs down the stairs too quickly and jolts the panel. As such, you and the previous residents were shown how to work the breaker panel by yourselves rather than having to call a member of staff every time.

It is doubly infuriating when it always seems to happen when you are in the middle of homework.

You groan in frustration and test your laptop; it turns on alright, thank goodness, but you don’t want to test your battery’s sturdiness again. Your music continues unabated- the headphones are connected to your phone- and you keep them on as you stumble towards your door and out into the hall.

“Goddamn… inconsiderate jerks.” You curse, feeling your way down the stairs. You have half a mind to actually complain; the maintenance crew are paid through your rent, after all. The very least they could do is to keep the lights on.

Or provide flashlights, you correct yourself, when you nearly trip. The rest of the trip is a mix of angry stomping and careful sidling; what if you broke your neck?

“Can’t count on them for anything.” Seething in the dark isn’t your proudest moment, but your therapist did say that expressing healthy anger is better than bottling it up. No one is around to hear it, and this is your only chance, so why not? Stupid co-op, taking your money and leaving you with a decrepit deathtrap.

You feel for the kitchen linoleum and fumble until you find the handle of the door for the under-stairs closet. It’s where the breaker panel is kept, but also filled with cleaning supplies, and you are hit in the head with a broom handle when you push the door open.

“Shit!” You are really frustrated now. It’s dark, your homework was ruined and now you can feel a bump growing on your head. Can nothing go right, just once?

You remember the last time the maintenance guys came over, humming and hawing about how much work they had to do while they were about as tanned as you were. Which was not a lot, but if your job was to fix houses you’d expect to break a sweat once in a while. The memory fills you with fresh annoyance.

“The next time I see them, I’m going to kill them.” You promise, feeling all over the panel for the main lever. “Gonna tear into those smiling, pasty-faced, lazy-”

You pull and the lights come back on. Satisfied, you step back, turn around… and freeze.

There are a half-dozen monsters in the kitchen. Staring at you.

The color drains out of your face and your fingers squeeze into the closet frame. Your other hand slowly slides into your pocket and turns your music off. Now you can hear your heart stuttering.

Sans and Papyrus are here, but so are several others. There is a tall white-furred goat lady in a purple blouse and black dress skirt, as well as a yellow lizard-woman with glasses and a lab coat. Most disconcerting is the muscular, blue-skinned fish woman in a tank top and jeans. She is glaring at you, accentuated by an eyepatch and shark-like teeth.

You reach up after a moment and pull off your headphones. There is still silence.

“Um… uh, hi.”

Another beat passes and you wonder if you’ve stumbled into something private, because the fish woman’s expression is darkening. The goat lady and lizard doctor look at each other with worried looks, and the white lights in Sans’s eyes are missing. That strikes you as the most worrying of all.

“A-ah, housemate!” Papyrus finally speaks, and not only is his voice quieter, but he is fidgeting. “Thank you for fixing the power. We were having a party.”

Your gaze flicks to the table. There are cans of soda and a pie, half-eaten.

You must not have heard them over the sounds of your music.

“Oh. Well.” Your limbs are willed into movement and you slowly shut the closet door behind you. “I, uh, didn’t know anybody was here.”

“Clearly.” The fish woman growls, and the lizard doctor grabs her arm.

If that isn’t a cue for you to leave, you don’t what is.

“I’ve got to, uh, do stuff. Upstairs.” Your voice is cracking and you back away, towards the staircase. The awkward silence continues. “You guys… have fun?”

You start up the stairs, pause and look back. Still staring. Not knowing what to do, and against your better judgement… you give a thumbs up.

“Nice to meet you!”

Papyrus gives one back, and you hasten up the steps. Your face is burning and you think you might die from the humiliation.

They hate you. You completely choked up in front of a bunch of strangers, and now they know you’re a complete loser with no idea how talking works.

Your door is barely shut before you bury your face into your pillow, screaming in self-loathing.

 

* * *

 

 

It is well into Saturday before you can pry yourself out of your slump and brave going downstairs again.

You wait, of course, until you are absolutely certain that nobody is around. The guests left last night, and you heard Papyrus go out this morning, but it is only when you hear the door open and shut again that you peek out of your room.

The thoughts from last night have replayed in your head a hundred times by now. Around the 20th time, it occurred to you that maybe they had been so quiet because you should have asked the names of the guests. They could have been offended in your disinterest… or, maybe because you were talking to yourself all the way down the stairs? That could have come across as lunatic behaviour.

You shake your head and quietly enter the kitchen. Until you are sure Sans is gone, you don’t relax, but luckily his door is closed and the couch and table are empty.

You sigh and your muscles unwind, but then you realize that there are socks.

Everywhere.

One on the counter, several on the floor and a couple scattered in the direction of the couch. They aren’t filthy or anything, but it is baffling. None of them even match.

You step over the ones on the floor and debate what to do. You are sure this is Sans’s doing- you’ve heard Papyrus yell at him for leaving his laundry around- but you had always figured it was just, you know, one or two things. Nothing like this, and it can’t be an accident because you certainly did not hear Papyrus complain out it before he left. You would have, you’re sure.

That means that this was all done after he went out. On purpose. On the day that the co-op comes to check the house.

At first, you’re hurt. Then annoyed. Then angry.

So, Sans is mad that you’re too shy to greet his guests? Maybe he should be, but to try and embarrass you in front of the co-op? This is certainly a passive-aggressive way to punish you. You’re the senior resident; if anyone is going to be scolded, it will be you.

You could leave it and deal with the consequences, but… well, you’re not angry enough to face that. However…

You think for a moment, before deciding. A quick trip to the basement produces a cardboard box, left over from a moving day. The socks all go inside, one by one, neatly folded into squares.

Pleased, you put the box in front of Sans’s door. There’s no way you’re going to do his laundry just to get out of ticking off the staff, after all, but you can’t just leave it around either. This is a good compromise.

It does need something though.

You cock your head, but then remember the closet’s cleaning supplies. You open the closet, careful to avoid being knocked in the head again, and find a duster.

It goes on top of the box, along with a sticky note from the drawer filled with miscellaneous items that no one uses. You scrawl onto the sticky note in black marker.

‘DUST OFF!’ For good measure, you add a smiley face. Just so he knows it’s meant in a joking way.

There, you think. He likes puns, so maybe this’ll settle the tension and you can go back to a relative equilibrium.

It can’t make things worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you guys enough for the input! :)


	5. Toy Cars, Coupons and Crying in the Bathroom

On Monday, the food court is exceptionally busy.

It isn’t exclusive to the school- anyone can grab food here- but even so, usually there’s a few tables free. You like the ones where your back is to the wall and you can do some homework while having a coffee. The crowd can be a bit tiring, but even you can get cabin fever at times.

On top of which, your house has gotten a little… tense, over the last few days. Ever since you made that lame joke with the box and duster, you haven’t seen Sans at all. You know he’s around, because empty condiment bottles keep piling up in the recycling bin, but usually you’re the one to do the avoiding. Papyrus is also acting strange; when you were getting ready for school this morning and passed by him in the kitchen, he looked nervous. He didn’t smile or wave or try to catch you in a conversation like usual; instead, he just fiddled with his breakfast.

You feel awful.

This isn’t what you wanted at all. Sure, you didn’t want to hang out, but that didn’t mean it was personal. The brothers seemed like perfectly decent guys, and you wished them nothing but the best. You’d only wanted them to… well, not be bothered by your inability to talk to them. Your other roommates had done a great job at it; nobody knocked on your door or asked you to hang out, and in return you’d felt secure enough to say hi once in a while. Even ask how their day went.

But now it was clear that the brothers disliked you, and probably thought it was mutual.

You sighed and searched the food court for a suitable spot. Every chair was taken, and there were long lines at every counter. At this point, you decided, it might be easier to go out and look for a coffee shop.

You’re about to turn around and walk out when your shoe is hit by something. Something with wheels. You look down, and see a toy car- about the size of your fist- with a flashing set of lights on it. It keeps running into your foot, so you kneel down to take a better look.

There’s a spider in the driver’s seat.

You almost fall backwards in surprise, until you remember that the food court has a monster food shop now, and you’d heard it was run by spiders. And, you suppose, the car and lights would be a pretty good way for the employees to keep from getting squished. It’s still weird, but at least more logically weird.

You shift to the side to let it pass, thinking you were in it’s way, but the car doesn’t move. Instead, you watch as the spider pulls a rolled-up piece of purple paper from the backseat. It holds it out, towards you.

“Uh,” you reach out and take it gently. You don’t want to snap its tiny legs. “Thanks?”

It continues to stay put, and people are beginning to stare, so you unroll the paper. It’s a message, written is very fine and delicate cursive.

_Are you the one who lives with Sans and Papyrus?_

You blink. “Yes?”

The spider pulls out another piece of paper. You take that one as well, and unroll it.

_Congratulations! You have been selected for a special promotion at Muffet’s Sweets and Treats! Please come directly to the counter and accept your prize!_

You want to protest, but the toy car has already rapidly reversed and disappeared back into the crowd.

This strikes you as a little odd. You could sort of believe that the little restaurant is handing out free samples or something, but why would the spider want to know if you lived with Sans and Papyrus? Have they talked about you?

You look towards the food counter. It’s a cute little cafe-style place that, you assume, sells coffee and baked goods. It only opened a few weeks before school started up again, but since you saw it you’ve been curious. The lines are long, despite the spider thing, and you’ve overheard good things about the flavors they have.

Ultimately you decide it would be worth a try, since you have time to kill anyway. You start off at the end of the line, with around twenty people ahead of you, and pull out your phone in your other hand to check the news. Six people are served as you wait, until someone taps you on the shoulder.

“hey.”

You turn around and Sans is in line behind you. You swallow thickly and force a smile.

“Oh, hi. Were you here this whole time?”

“yep.” His smile is the same as ever, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. He could be furious or genuinely pleased to see you, and you wouldn’t know the difference. “didn’t think you were into monster food.”

You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean- there are humans in line too, so it must be edible- but you decide not to ask. “A spider came by and gave me a coupon.”

“a coupon?” His bony brow-bones furrow. He’s pretty flexible, for being a skeleton. “can i see?”

“O-oh, sure.” You hand him the little purple slip and he studies it for a second. His smile twitches downwards, and you think that might mean he’s worried. “What’s wrong?”

“nothing.” Sans replies, and to your shock, he rips the coupon in half.

“H-hey!” You reach for the pieces, but he shoves them into his pocket and grabs your wrist. Every part of you tenses; his hand is cold and hard and unforgiving. You tug and panic. You can’t get free.

He pulls you out line until you’re about two storefronts away and then abruptly lets go. You want to yell, to scream, but people are watching and your throat closes up. What the hell is going on?

“stay away from that place.” His voice is a growl, and your face pales at the look on his face. The lights in his eyes are gone again, just like that night when he and Papyrus had guests over.

Oh god, he really does hate you.

You stand there, stricken, and watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets again and walks back towards the spider cafe. His gait is slow but his shoulders are stiff, and it makes you feel sick.

The washroom is at the other side of the food court, and you keep your head down until you are inside and the one woman there has left. You practically run into one of the stalls, slam the door shut and curl up on top of the toilet.

Your chest hurts. Your face hurts. When you touch your cheeks, you find they are soaked with sweat and unbidden tears.

It’s a stupid thing to have an anxiety attack over, you’re sure, but you can’t help it. Nobody’s ever been that angry towards you before, that they would be outright spiteful. You don’t know what to do. What do you even say?

It’s because you’re a freak. He can’t even stand the thought of eating at the same place as you.

Fresh tears spill, but you remember that you’re in a public restroom, and manage to keep the sobs silent. It feels like grade school all over again, when the cool kids took your book and hid it in the sandbox. This time, though, there’s no teacher to intervene. Despite everything, there’s only you.

You recall the advice your therapist gave you once, when she brought up going out more often. That when you next had an anxiety attack, it was better to let it run its course and not panic, since that would only extend the problem. At the time you’d thought that you’d rather just avoid having one altogether, but you can’t regret hearing it now. Despite the wrenching, coiling feeling in your gut, you force your lungs into a slow and deep rhythm. It’s not a quick process; you tense and lose focus when someone comes into the washroom, but they leave soon enough and by that time the worst has passed.

You allow yourself a few minutes for the tears to stop and your chest to loosen. Much as you’d like to, you can’t spend the entire day sobbing on top of a toilet. At some point, you need to decide what to do. If Sans hates you… well. You still have to live together. And if there’s to be no politeness between you, then the only thing you can do is to pretend he doesn’t exist.

You wipe your face with the toilet paper, flush it down and check under the stall walls, just to be sure that nobody is there. Opening the door and looking in the mirror is a mistake; your face is a wreck, with puffy eyes and red cheeks. It’s a familiar sight, you note with sadness, though you haven’t broken down in public for a long time. Not a proud moment.

The food court outside is still busy and Sans is nowhere in sight. It’s a small relief as you weave around people and push through the doors that lead to the sidewalk outside. The bus shelter is quite close and you make it just in time to hop aboard, choosing a spot at the very back and sinking into the seat. No one appears to notice your sniffly nose or red eyes.

Even so, you count the stoplights and keep your face turned to the street. Seven stops later and you hop off, crossing the street and trudging up to the door of your residence.

You make the decision to try and head straight for the bathroom to have a shower, but when you open the door it’s no longer a simple matter. Papyrus is in the foyer, putting on running shoes and his backpack.

You lock eyes.

“O-oh, housemate.” Papyrus looks nervous, and his voice is still quiet compared to his usual booming confidence. It’s then that you remember that by leaving the food court early, you would probably run into him getting ready for class. Exactly the thing you were trying to avoid.

Dammit.

“H-hi.” You mumble. You try to keep your head down, but he’s surprisingly quick on the draw.

“Have… have you been crying?” Papyrus asks, and shame colors your cheeks. You didn’t want him to see this. You don’t want Sans to know. It’s humiliating and you hate it.

“No.” You reply pointedly and squeeze past him, intent on the stairs. He’s a nice guy- too nice, to be honest- and you don’t think he would understand. How do you even start? His brother thinks you’re garbage and you cried like a little kid when he ripped up a dumb coupon? It’s ludicrous and you just want to be left alone to wallow in self-pity.

Anyone else would take the hint, but Papyrus is both oblivious and painfully observant.

“Please, housemate, I don’t understand.” His voice is pleading. “If I can help…?”

You think of the way his friends looked at you, with disappointment and disgust. Of Sans and his dark eyes and cheshire smile, telling you in no uncertain terms to get lost. Feeling every pitying look, every scrunched face, every murmur and hushed giggle.

Every horrible scenario you’ve ever dreamt up about being with people has come true.

“I...” You don’t turn around. You can’t look at him and know what you’ll see. “I think we should just… not talk to each other anymore.”

There is a sharp intake of breath. The space between you feels like a wall.

“I...” His voice breaks, and you think you hear him sniffle. It snaps your heart in two. “…f-fine!”

You hear him shift, and for a moment your resolve shatters and you turn around, to try and apologize, to do something… but he’s fast, and the door is slammed shut before you can even reach out to stop him.

The house is suddenly deathly quiet.

The hand you had outstretched in some attempt to stop him slowly returns to your side. You never wanted this. This was exactly what you were trying to avoid. Eventually, anyone who comes to know you learns that you always say and do the wrong thing. Your jokes are stupid, your conversation topics are boring and you can’t keep a friend to save your life. You’d always known that if you tried to be friendly, Papyrus and Sans would realize it just like everyone else.

But it never hurts any less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing upset Papyrus is not one of my happier moments, but I swear there's a point to this! And thanks again to everyone who's expressed kinship with 2B; she's definitely not a perfect person and I wanted to write a story about someone who would challenge the Undertale characters and react to them in a truly human way. Please keep sending me your feedback, and even questions (as long as I can answer them without compromising the plot.)


	6. A Breakdown in Communication

“I see.”

You squirm. Your therapist, Ms. Killian, is set up in a relatively small office; just a small desk and computer with two chairs barely five feet apart. It leaves little between the two of you when she fixes you one of those sympathetic smiles.

She’s not your first therapist, but she is your favourite. The others had pried and prodded you for reasons as to your issues; your popular mother and high-achieving younger sister were the favourite topic. It might even be true. But those therapists had been satisfied only when you dredged up miserable, aching memories and left you with no way to deal with the problem by the end of the session. You’d begun to feel like you were having your defences scraped away for nothing.

Killian, though, didn’t seem interested in the past so much as the future. She likes to give you homework and goals to work towards, and even if you don’t meet many of them at first, she doesn’t act disappointed. Over the months you’ve known her, she’s simply coaxed you try little things, and for the most part it’s been helping. The whole reason you are still in university at the age of 26 is because you were struggling to maintain any type of class workload, and now she has okay-ed you to take on a full-time schedule.

Still, this is the first time you’ve come to her with matters of interpersonal conflict, and you can tell she’s a little surprised.

“So, Sans seems to be angry with you.” Killian sets her pen down. “And you told Papyrus that it would be best if he didn’t talk to you anymore?”

“Yeah.” The memory of it makes you cringe; it only happened yesterday. You don’t know how you would handle things if your appointment wasn’t the next day. “He was pretty upset.”

“Do you remember when we talked about how avoidance behaviour can lead to misunderstandings?” She asks. You nod. “What makes you feel secure can come across very differently to the people around you unless they are aware of your situation. Do they know about your anxiety?”

“No.”

“Well... in my opinion, I think it’s important for you to tell them.”

Your throat constricts at the thought. You can barely talk about regular things; how are you supposed to explain that your brain likes to freak out sometimes? Pitying looks are even worse than angry ones, you’ve learned.

Killian appears to notice your distaste for the idea. “Now, because you still have some ways to go in communicating your feelings through speech, I have an idea.” She holds up her notepad and taps it. “You can write a letter.”

Your mouth opens to explain exactly why that is a horrible idea... but when you try to think of why, it slowly closes.

“It doesn’t have to be long or go into detail about everything,” she continues, “but you can apologize for giving the wrong impression and express how you really feel about them. Does that sound like something you can do?”

“I think so.” You have to admit, it sounds a lot easier than trying to explain the minutiae of your worries; especially because they’re upset with you. “But, um, what do I say?”

“Well, here.” Killian ripped out a page of her notepad and handed it to you, along with her pen. “Use the corner of the desk if you’d like.”

You scoot your chair over as per her suggestion and set the pen on the page. You look up at her expectantly, but then you remember this is Killian you’re talking to, and bite your lip.

“Um, well... how about, ‘I’m sorry for being weird?’”

She shakes her head gently. “You’re starting off alright, but don’t make yourself sound unsure. Self-deprecation can make people uncomfortable.”

Oh. That’s something to remember.

“Then... maybe, ‘I’m sorry that we got off on the wrong foot?’”

“Much better.”

“Okay... ‘I’m not used to talking to people yet.’”

“Good, but say that you’re working on it.”

Next comes a simplistic explanation of social anxiety disorder, which amounts to fear of being around people. You’re loathe to actually mention the label, but Killian points out that then you can point to resources and websites if they have questions.

Killian leads you through the rest of the letter, pointing out where you ramble or need to explain more. It’s a little baffling that most of what she tells you is stuff that other people know instinctively, but she is quick to reassure you that it is only a matter of practice. All in all it’s not too different from the other projects she’s assigned you, except that it’s a little more... urgent.

By the time the page is completed, with scribbles in the margins and several sentences crossed out, you’re almost feeling confident. All the basics are there; an earnest apology for any offence you might have intended, and a simple explanation as to your situation. You’ll have to copy it onto something else, but besides that you can feel a little relieved.

However...

“Um, do you think this will be enough?” You look up at Killian, who is reading over the draft. “What if they think I’m just making excuses?”

“Hmm.” She taps the paper with the pen, looking thoughtful. “You could get them a gift. Or... even better, you could make something.”

“Like what?”

“Well, do you remember when we talked about you taking up some kind of hobby? Something that would keep you busy outside of your room? I think I recall you being interested in trying baking.”

Well, that was true. There had been one session where Killian had run down some ideas for pastimes, and you had mentioned seeing a book on colourful little cakes that had looked like fun. Though, after that day you still couldn’t bring yourself to actually go out and buy the book or even give baking a shot. At the time you’d made excuses, but it was mostly because you had chickened out. Now, though, it would offer an easy solution to your dilemma. If you were mad at somebody for being rude, you’d probably forgive them if they gave you a cake.

“Ok.” You nod, and Killian smiles. “I’ll make a cake, a-and give them the letter.”

“Excellent.” She hands you back the paper and stands up, smoothing out her skirt. “However, if things don’t go according to plan, I don’t want you to feel discouraged. This is still a big step for you, and I want you to tell me everything at our next session.”

A glance at the clock confirms that, yes, you’re out of time. Five minutes late, actually, and you’re about to apologize when she gestures for you to relax. You stand up and head for the door, back a little straighter than when you went in.

“I’ll, um, see you in two weeks. Thank you.” You say, and wave, and she waves back as you step outside and shut the door behind you.

The hallway is somewhat long, with several other therapist offices, and exits out into a small lobby of waiting chairs. The floor is a mental health clinic that usually deals with hospital outpatients, but you’d been referred by your psychiatrist to Killian specifically. For her, you can swallow the nervousness of walking through room full of uncomfortable, somewhat embarrassed people. Maybe the sheer number of people coming in and out should make you feel less like the odd one out, but it doesn’t.

Now, you know yourself. The longer you wait, the more likely your brain will trick you into chickening out. That’s why you decide that it all has to be done today, before you convince yourself otherwise. You keep yourself steeled against your own thoughts, and when you reach the grocery store you make sure to actually go inside. Once in, it becomes a bit easier to brave the aisle with what you’re looking for.

The actual baking supplies are a little lacking, as far as you can tell. There’s flour and boxes of pre-made mix, but there are no little... well, you don’t know what they’re called, but the tubes for the icing. The only icing comes in little tubs and the one interesting one has little rainbow flecks in it. It’s a little discouraging, to be honest; you don’t want it to look like it’s the first cake you’ve ever made.

In the end you choose a box of vanilla cake mix and a chocolate icing tub, and manage to find a little cake pan hidden at the back of the shelf. You check your phone, and on its advice you also buy a little plastic package of baking spoons. Papyrus has plenty of stuff, you’re sure, but it would be a little inappropriate to use his things for your apology. When you make your way up to the counter with your basket, you also grab a container of strawberries from the produce section; it seems a better topper than birthday candles.

The express lane is being run by the teenage attendant from before, and she nods when she sees you. Normally she would ignore your purchases, but this time she raises an eyebrow.

“I see you around a lot,” she says, and swipes the cake mix, “but I’ve never seen you buy this stuff. Celebrating something?”

You swallow. You could nod, or agree, and stop the conversation there, but... isn’t this what got you into trouble in the first place? Not communicating? And if you can’t do even this, then how can you patch things up with the skeleton brothers?

“U-uh, no, it’s...” You falter, then steel yourself and continue, “It’s an apology cake. I made some people upset and...well, yeah. I’m trying to make amends.”

Deep down you’re expecting her to give you an annoyed look- you stammer alot, for being an adult- but she actually smiles at you.

“Really? What a cute idea! Gotta say though, can’t really see you making anybody mad; you’re always so quiet when I see you.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. Pretty quiet.” You chuckle nervously. She sweeps the rest of your supplies through and tucks them into a grocery bag.

“Hey, if you want,” she says just as you grab your bag, “The pharmacy next door has a big selection of cards- even apology ones. I got one when I scratched my dad’s car.”

“O-oh.” That’s... a great idea, actually. You were planning to copy out your letter anyway, and a cute card would go better with the cake. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” She smiles at you again, and you hesitantly smile back and incline your head in farewell. Your heart is still beating hard when you leave the store, but it’s almost with... elation.

With things going so well, it’s significantly easier to immediately walk into the pharmacy and look for the aforementioned greeting cards. The cashier had been right; the pharmacy did have a big selection. Most were more celebratory, but there were a dozen ones for saying sorry. Some of them had googly eyes or musical chips, which you doubted would be appropriate, but you’d found a little white card with a picture of a crab on it. The caption underneath the image read ‘Sorry I’ve been crabby’, which struck you as pretty funny and also something Sans would appreciate.

Buying it is quick and painless, along with a little black pen. You’re still worried that you might try to put it off if you wait too long, so you find the nearest bench and pull out the draft. It’s a bit difficult to write straight without a table, but you manage it, and the card is finished. You even put a little smiley face next to your name.

For the first time in a while, you feel like you’ve actually improved, just a little. It’s probably too soon to celebrate, and you are still worried about how Sans and Papyrus will take your efforts, but... the tightness in your chest eases. This time you can actually say that you tried your best, and that has to be worth something in the end.

 

* * *

 

You arrive at the door of your building, grocery bag in hand. The card is tucked next to the cake mix and icing.

It’s around four o-clock, which you figure would give you enough time to get the cake finished by the time Sans or Papyrus came home. Assuming that you didn’t ruin it, but that was why you’d decided to go with a mix instead of starting from scratch.

You push the door open, but instantly realized that something was... off.

At first, you couldn’t put your finger on it. You stepped further into the house, letting the door shut behind you, and wandered into the kitchen area. Nothing was out of place, except-

You jolt when you see it. The first seven steps of the staircase were completely blocked, stacked with the two recycling bins and about five folded piles of laundry. Unless you spent a good ten minutes moving all of it elsewhere, you wouldn’t be able to get up to your room.

“hey.”

You squeak in surprise and spin around. Sans stands about two metres away, blocking any path back to the front door. You hadn’t heard his door open, or seen him anywhere for that matter, and you try and fail to surmise where he could have hidden.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s wrong, all wrong, and you can feel your plans slipping through your grasp. Why is he here?

“look, i get it. the whole monster thing? it’s weird.” He has his hands in his pockets, which might have given the illusion of being relaxed, but his smile keeps... twitching. Like he’s struggling to keep it in place. “can’t blame ya for wanting some space.”

Monster thing? Well, sure, it was disconcerting having skeletons walking and talking, but that was low on your list of nervous triggers. Frankly the ominous way he’s staring at you is much more worrying.

“so, ya know, i figured we’d give you some time. let you relax a bit.” He takes a step forward and instinctively you shift backwards, away from him and the tense atmosphere. He reminds you far too much of yesterday at the food court, and already whatever small confidence you’d entered with has left.

“but then... well, you made it clear that you ain’t exactly open to the idea of us being around.” His eyesockets close and he shrugs. “no big deal. i can handle that, even if you want to threaten me.”

Threaten? What-

Then it hits you like a freight train. He thinks that you’ve been avoiding them because they’re monsters. That you hate them. That you can’t stand to be around them.

Your throat is seizing again and you want to run, to hide, but the stairs are blocked and he stands between you and the front door. This is the worst possible scenario you could have come up with. Even protesting is beyond your power at this point; your mouth is dry and tight and your ears are ringing.

No, no, no.

“but then you made my brother cry.”

You have the presence of mind to register that Sans’s eyes have gone empty and black. He’s furious. Threatening. Disgusted.

You want to speak. To defend yourself. To tell him that he couldn’t be further from the truth, that you’d been so afraid that he’d think you were a freak. That hurting Papyrus would cause you guilt for the rest of your life.

“I-” you start, but the next word comes out as something strangled. You try again and get a hoarse whimper.

His eyes widen.

You wonder hysterically what he could be surprised at now, but then you’re intensely aware of tears racing down your cheeks and soaking the front of your shirt. With that knowledge comes the shaking, and you teeter a little unsteadily on your feet. You’re dizzy.

The bag of groceries crashes to the ground from your limp fingers, and you can hear the tub of icing cracking open on the linoleum. Chocolate splashes across the floor.

Stupid.

Idiot.

Worthless.

“h-hey-” He’s reaching out and your whole body flinches. He hates you. He’s always going to hate you. A stupid cake and a stupid card can’t change how much you’ve fucked up.

The first instinct is to run for the stairs, and you heed it; you try to yank one of the recycling boxes out of the way but it topples. Glass ketchup bottles pour out and clatter against the floor. The sounds startle you all over again and the colours of the labels are blurring.

“SANS? WHAT WAS THAT?”

Oh god no. Not him too.

You whip around; Sans is still there, looking sort of stunned. He’s still in the way of the front door and you don’t have the emotional strength to pass him. Instead, your eyes zero in on the stairs closet.

“what are you doing?!” The lights are back in his eyes now, and his voice is louder. This is all your fault. He thinks you’re a prejudiced, hateful, cruel bitch. Papyrus is probably scared of you.

You’re scared of yourself.

Sans takes another step forward and you think he might be trying to grab your shoulders, but the movement makes you remember how he yanked you out of line at the food court, hard and unforgiving. You can’t bear that again.

The fear is all-encompassing and completely in control, and it is the only thing that makes your mouth work again.

“ _Don’t touch me!_ ” It’s somewhere between a hiss and a scream, and Sans jerks backwards in shock.

You yank the door of the closet open and the broom falls out. You almost trip over it as you make your escape, diving backwards into the tiny space and trying desperately to slam the door shut. Frustration mounts; the broom is lying half-out of the closet and the door can’t close. A metal bucket and several boxes are biting into your legs and waist, but you don’t care. The only thing you want is space and dark and quiet.

Another yank on the door and your shoulder bumps into the breaker panel; instant blackness, all across the house. Of course.

You can’t bear to look at him.

You want to scream, but settle for covering your mouth with your hand as you sob. It’s ugly and noisy and he can definitely hear you, but it’s the only outlet you have for the adrenaline surging in your blood.

You’ve fucked up. You’ve completely ruined everything, and embarrassed yourself in the worst possible way. Of course they hate you; you can barely stand yourself.

“I’m sorry!” The words tumble out of your mouth in between sobs. Your hands keep a tight hold on the doorknob and you are probably leaving deep dents in the broom handle and door.

Sans doesn’t reply, but you do see several of his phalanges grip the edge of the door. Panicked, you pull again and hear the broom splinter. His fingers disappear.

“Don’t...!” The word is just a croak. You can see his fluffy pink slippers underneath the door, and he doesn’t leave. You wish he would.

“SANS, WHAT IS-”

Papyrus’s voice is coming from the direction of the basement stairs, and you can hear him stop when he reaches the kitchen. He must have been doing laundry.

“... Sans, why is the housemate in the closet?”

“uh...”

You press your forehead to the cool door. Neither the tears nor the tightness in your chest will ease, and much as you try you can’t completely muffle the sounds you’re making. Crying and gasping for air don’t allow for much dignity.

There’s a long period of silence and stillness, punctuated only by your sobs and coughs. From behind the door you can’t read their expressions at all, and just squeeze the doorknob until you can feel the divots in your skin. They’re disgusted, of course. Why wouldn’t they be?

“Housemate...?”

Papyrus’s voice is quiet, and he peeks through the crack in the door. You hide your face between your outstretched arms. You don’t want him to see you like this.

“My brother didn’t mean to make you cry.” You squeeze your eyes shut. Why can’t he leave you alone? “He can be a numbskull sometimes. Will you come out so he can say sorry?”

You shake your head and bury your face in your forearm to try and stifle a new set of tears. He shouldn’t have to apologize; you’re the stupid one. The crazy one. The one who can’t do anything right.

Papyrus steps away from the door and you hear him rummaging through your grocery bag. “Sans, did you break her groceries? Is that why she’s upset?”

You can feel nausea building in your stomach.

There’s a long pause of silence, where neither are moving and Papyrus has stopped going through your bag. Your sobs have turned into soft heaves and sniffles, but you don’t think you can open the door just yet. Your heart is still racing and you feel very cold; if you walk, you might keel over.

“Sans, you should read this.”

Oh. The card.

This isn’t how you wanted to have them see it. Preferably you would have been alone in your room or out somewhere by the time the two brothers found your cake and card, and then you wouldn’t have to deal immediately with their reactions. The unfairness of it all makes you slowly lower yourself to your knees, still gripping the doorknob tightly.

More silence, until Papyrus comes back to the door and kneels down so you are the same height. His kneecaps clack on the linoleum.

“You don’t hate us?” He asks, and puts his hand on the edge of the door. If you yank again you might actually break the broom and snap his phalanges, so you relax your grip, just a little. You swallow and shake your head.

He pulls gently on the door and you allow him to open it just a tiny bit, just enough that you can now see Sans standing over his brother’s shoulder. His smile is gone, and that is perhaps the most shocking thing you’ve seen today.

They both look worried. Why? Don’t they hate _you?_

“Human,” Papyrus says. You hiccup. “Can I please open the door?”

Somewhere in your brain common sense is taking hold, and you remember that no, you can’t hide in the closet forever. It takes a second to get your fingers to loosen, but you do let go of the doorknob. Papyrus pries it open slowly, and you’re grateful that the power is out so that your weepy face won’t be illuminated by harsh artificial light.

“There we go.” Papyrus beams at you and moves the broom out of the way. “Closets are for clothes and boxes, not for humans. Is it ok if I help you up? You can sit on the couch.”

You nod and take Papyrus’s hand when he offers it. Your legs are unsteady and weak, and you’re still crying, but also more exhausted than eager to run. That much fear all at once was probably not healthy.

He leads you to the couch and you sit, sinking into the old cushions. It’s incredibly uncomfortable for them both to be standing there while you try to wipe away tears, but at least you’re not sitting on cleaning supplies anymore.

“Wait there.” Papyrus disappears into his room, and it gives you second to glance up at Sans very quickly. His smile hasn’t returned, and he’s been rooted to the same spot for several minutes.

He’s probably unnerved by your crying.

That thought starts a new flood of tears, and you cover your face in your hands.

“Here!”

A heavy weight suddenly covers you and you almost start panicking all over again, until you realize it’s a blanket. A big, multicoloured quilt with little monster characters drawn into the squares. It’s...surprisingly reassuring, and you grip the edges of it to keep your head hidden.

“Now, you stay here and cry as long as you want.” Papyrus says firmly. You squeeze at the blanket and sniffle loudly. How... how is he being so nice? So understanding? Nobody but Killian has ever listened to you cry for this long, and she gets paid to do that. “We can stay with you, if you’d like. I have a book about a bunny that might make you feel better.”

With your head beneath the blanket you can’t really shake your head to let him know, so you wet your lips. “N-no, I’m ok. Thanks.”

You worry that he might take it badly, but he doesn’t. “No problem, human! If you need anything, you can text us! Here, let me send you our numbers.”

You don’t see what he’s doing, but your phone buzzes with an incoming message. You recall writing your number down on the pamphlets back when they first moved in; you hadn’t asked for theirs yourself.

Self-loathing settles in heavier than even the quilt. What a pathetic waste of space you are. No wonder they thought you were a monster-hater.

Still, it was getting hard to concentrate, with a big headache setting in from the endless crying and shaking. The knot in your chest slowly unravelled as you pulled your legs up onto the couch and curled up, clutching the plush fabric with both hands. Both Papyrus and Sans were quiet as they left the room, but it wasn’t as much of a relief as it usually was.

With them gone, you were left to wrap yourself up in the heavy warmth and slowly embrace the encroaching sleepiness that tended to follow a really bad panic attack. That, and realize you felt just a tiny bit relieved that now they knew what the worst of you looked like. There was a freedom in that, and it was reassuring enough that you felt comfortable in lying down.

Your plan hadn’t worked out at all, but you fall asleep faster than you had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot longer because I felt these scenes were really important to the rest of the story. I hope you guys enjoyed it, and please continue to send your feedback and critique!


	7. Small Concessions

When you next wake up, it is immediately apparent that something is different.

You are still bundled in the quilt that Papyrus gave you, and despite the summer weather you don’t feel unusually warm. A quick brush with your hand and you realize it’s handmade, with slightly uneven stitching and a couple ragged spots. There’s a comfort in it, and you debate spending another little while asleep just to avoid eventually giving it back.

It brings back all the memories of your earlier breakdown, though, and it takes a minute for the intense embarrassment to subside. Papyrus had been unbelievably kind, but Sans had just looked... uncomfortable. You can’t blame him, of course, but it still stings.

You push yourself upwards, blinking against the dim light. It takes a moment, but then it hits you.

This is not the couch.

You jolt upright, back stiff, and take in your surroundings. The bed you are laying in is quite long, and is shaped like a red sports car. There is also a stuffed bunny tucked into the crook of your arm that you hadn’t noticed before.

The room is just a bit bigger than your own, with a tidy desk and dresser, and a window with drawn curtains. There are action figures that you do not recognize on a shelf, and a huge pirate flag tacked on the wall. This information comes in all at once, and you conclude quite quickly that this must be Papyrus’s room.

The implications of this make you want to crawl under a rock. You’d fallen asleep on the couch, and you didn’t sleepwalk, so Papyrus must have picked you up and put you here himself. Therefore you were so out of it that you didn’t notice being carried, and took over his bed for what looked like an entire night.

Great. Fantastic.

A little dazed, you slide out of the bed and fold the quilt into something you can carry. The least you can do after sobbing all over it is to throw it in the wash.

You tentatively push open the door, quilt in hand, and peer into the kitchen area. Neither Sans or Papyrus is there, and your gut twists into a mix of relief and disappointment. You do not want to face them just yet, despite how understanding Papyrus seemed to be, but you do want to apologize properly. Eventually. With preparation.

You can’t lock Papyrus’s door without his key, so you just shut it behind you. It’s now that you notice that the kitchen table is not empty; there is a plastic container on it, filled with spaghetti. A bright yellow sticky note is attached to the lid, and you peel it off for a closer look.

THIS SPAGHETTI IS FOR YOU! WE’LL BE BACK SOON!!!

The note is in all caps, and there is a doodle of a little Papyrus and Sans, framing a stick figure that you assume represents you. The little drawings are all holding hands and smiling.

You can’t help but smile yourself, even as your heart clenches with a stifled longing. It has been a very long time since you’ve let yourself acknowledge that, despite your fears, you would like to have friends. That someone like you could hope for more than amicable coexistence.

You did try, years ago, every once in a while. Sometimes you would find yourself sitting next to someone in class who seemed friendly and talkative. You could handle the interactions if they did most of the talking, and even enjoyed it, but all of the natural progressions in a friendship seemed to be beyond your abilities. Going out, for example, or talking about anything deeper than a TV show. Eventually these acquaintances tended to drift away to more sociable people. You couldn’t blame them, not really, but it was discouraging and you hadn’t made another effort in a long time.

Now, though...

You find yourself idly thumbing the note, before you gently fold it in half and put it into your pocket. Then you go downstairs and throw the quilt into the washing machine, turn it on and come back upstairs to put the spaghetti into the microwave. A glance at your phone tells you that it is ten in the morning, which is shocking because you have a hard time believing you slept that long. It does make it less weird to be eating spaghetti though; you can call it brunch instead of breakfast.

The food is done in about a minute and then you are left with a dilemma. You could take your food upstairs and avoid Sans and Papyrus until you’ve waited out the embarrassment... or you could stay here, in the kitchen, until they get back.

You stand there, plastic container and fork in hand, staring at the sauce and noodles as if it might offer an answer. If you leave, they’ll know why, and it probably won’t come up again. They might even grow comfortable with only seeing you for a minute or so a day.

But if you stay, you might learn more about them. You might be able to talk to them.

The part of you that has been cultivated to save you from embarrassment and disappointment rears its head, and you know which path it wants to take, but against all odds you take the spaghetti and plunk yourself down into a kitchen chair.

_If you stay, they’ll only see more of how awkward you are._

It isn’t a malicious or patronizing thought; just matter-of-fact, and in your own voice. Normally you would heed it, but with some effort you dig your fork into the noodles and defiantly take a bite.

It’s your house too, you reason. You pay to use the kitchen. Why shouldn’t you be here?

_Don’t you remember bawling your eyes out and making a fool of yourself? They’re probably hoping you’re gone by the time they get back._

Your brain continues to make arguments about why what you’re doing is a horrible idea, but even so, you take bites of the pasta and keep your eyes glued to the plate. You know that you’re inviting the danger of humiliation and regret, but there’s the small chance that this might work out.

And if it all blows up in your face, well, at least you can tell Killian you tried.

You’re nearly finished what you can swallow- the portion size is not exactly made for humans- when the front door opens. Your spine goes rigid and your breath hitches.

This is it.

“Housemate!” Papyrus is wearing shorts and a brightly-coloured t-shirt that shows off some of the lower region of his spine, and a baseball cap. He grins widely and waves the hand that isn’t holding a grocery bag. “I hope you are feeling much better!”

You nod. “Yes, um, thank you. Very much.”

“Excellent!” He crows, and behind him Sans enters as well. You don’t know how he manages it, but he really likes to wear blue hoodies and jackets, even in the summer weather. This time at least he’s wearing sandals, and also carrying a grocery bag. When he sees you his smile doesn’t disappear, but his eyes do shift a little, and your heart sinks.

You don’t have much time to dwell on it though, because Papyrus promptly starts emptying out his bag onto the table. There’s pasta sauce and ketchup, of course, but then he also flourishes a tub of icing. Chocolate icing.

“Here we are!” He beams at you and holds out the container, which you take gently. It’s the exact same one that you bought yesterday, the one that broke and spilled all over the floor.

You blink at it. You don’t know what to say.

“I-I... thank you.” Your fingers squeeze the red plastic. If this keeps up, you might cry again.

“Oh, don’t thank me! It was Sans’s idea!” Papyrus claps his arm around Sans’s shoulders, who put his own bag down on the table. Sans doesn’t look uncomfortable exactly, just a bit sheepish, and you notice a bluish tint to his cheekbones that you haven’t seen before. “I would have thought of it eventually, of course, because I am very great.”

Papyrus then proceeds to pull out a small cake decorating kit, a kid’s one, but you certainly did not see that at the grocery store. Nor do you think any local grocery store would carry it, and when Papyrus hands it to you, you can’t help but give Sans a quizzical look. He just shrugs.

“Now you can make that cake you wanted! And don’t worry, Sans and I will leave so that you do not get scared.” Papyrus says firmly, and both he and Sans begin to turn around. You panic.

“W-wait!”

They pause and look at you.

“I... I, um.” You flounder. What are you doing? This wasn’t the plan.

But, still, you’ve made it this far. May as well try.

“You, uh, don’t have to leave. If you don’t want to.” You fidget in your seat and nervously fiddle with the little plastic kit. “I’m just, you know, not good at talking. So if that isn’t a problem...”

There’s a beat of silence that makes you regret everything you’ve ever done, right up until Papyrus and Sans both smile widely.

“Of course it isn’t a problem!” Papyrus nods emphatically. “I, the Great Papyrus, have many friends who do not talk at all! Right, Sans?”

“yeah.” Sans seems to have relaxed a bit, and winks at you. “knowing sign language comes in pretty hand-y.”

Papyrus fires him a dark look, but the pun is actually pretty good and you can’t help but smile a little. At the very least the butterflies in your stomach have gone dormant.

“So then, I’ll, uh, make the cake.” You stand up with the rest of the spaghetti and close it with the lid to go back in the fridge. “And you can guys can... um, do whatever you want.”

Papyrus suddenly gasps. “OH! I’m sure I have a book on baking somewhere! Toriel gave it to me for this year’s Breaking the Barrier Day!” He immediately burst into his room and shut the door, but you could hear the sounds of books being flung this way and that. You didn’t even have a chance to protest that you were just going to look it up on Google.

This leaves you alone with Sans, who takes up a spot at the table while you open the fridge and put the leftovers inside. You’re not quite as comfortable with him as you are with Papyrus yet, which is only slightly to begin with, but you did say he could do what he liked. Rather than draw out what is sure to be awkward silence, you reach for your phone and start looking for instructions on how to bake this cake.

“the cake mix you bought is in the cupboard.”

“Oh.” You remember that it had been on the floor with everything else yesterday, and when you look in the cupboard it is there, with what appears to be a smudge on the box. The icing must have gotten to it but then been cleaned off. “Thank you.”

“no problem.” When you turn around, Sans is watching you. He hasn’t made a move to play with his phone or grab anything to do, he’s just... sitting there. Smiling.

Staring.

“Um,” you open the mix box and set it down, “aren’t you... bored?”

Smooth.

“nah. i wanted to talk to you, when i got a chance.”

You swallow and smile nervously. “Sure?”

He sighs softly and scratches the back of his skull. “i wanna apologize. For yesterday. I misinterpreted what was going on, and... well, i didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Oh. Well. You weren’t expecting it, but knowing that he didn’t actually think you were racist was a good thing.

“It wasn’t, you know, your fault.” You reply. “I bet anybody would think that way, with how I act. I don’t... well, I mean to, but not in that way. To be mean.” The words are a jumble but mostly understandable, and he nods.

“yeah, i get that now. but, uh, i gotta ask.” He leans forward and his elbows and steeples his phalanges. “the duster?”

It takes you a minute to remember the box of socks and the duster with the note. You cringe.

“Ah, yeah. It was a dumb pun, right? I just thought, you know, dirty socks. Cleaning.” You start to search the bottom cabinets for a bowl to put the mix in, anything to focus on but your heated cheeks. “It was silly.”

When you reappear at the table with the chip bowl- it’ll do- Sans has a confused look on his face.

“so you don’t know what ‘dust off’ means?”

“Um.” You wrack your brain. Is it a common phrase of some kind?

“it means ‘kill yourself’. for monsters, anyway.”

If you hadn’t already put the bowl down, you would have dropped it. Your face goes white and you desperately search Sans’s face for any sign that he is joking, but despite the smile he looks very serious.

“Oh, god.” It’s not an attack, but there’s definitely anxiety in your voice as you speak. “I didn’t- I swear, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry!”

He waves his hand. “relax. if ya didn’t know, ya didn’t know. no big deal.”

“I-it is a big deal, I mean...!” You wring your hands and then gesture to the table. “I should make a bigger cake!”

Sans chuckles. “hey, i won’t say no, but i’ve already forgiven ya. it’s not like you sent us a bomb threat or anything.”

That was oddly specific. “Has... has that happened before?”

Again, Sans furrows his browbones. “you didn’t hear about yesterday? some monster-haters sent the school some crazy letters and the campus was evacuated.”

The thought is sickening. You’d thought that everything was going relatively well, but you didn’t check political news very often or watch TV, so you couldn’t say that you were well informed. All that you knew was that there was some sort of pro-human group that had risen up and was arguing against the decision that monsters be considered a “nation within a nation”. Their rhetoric was hateful, and plagiarized a lot of other anti-equality groups who were being ousted from power. When you saw a poster or ad for their group you tended to look the other way out of annoyance.

But a bomb threat, at a school? What possible danger could students pose to anyone?

“I had no idea. I only had one class early in the morning.” You bite your lip. “Nothing happened, right?”

“nope, but the school is closed for a couple of days.” Sans shoved his hands back into his pockets. “it, uh, did make me lose my cool a little though. s’why i thought i should talk to you yesterday.”

That did put things in a bit more perspective. If he thought you were threatening him, who’s to say you weren’t sympathetic to the terrorists? He was probably worried and you were the closer problem. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was understandable.

“Wow.” The words come out before you can stop yourself. “You really thought I was garbage.”

Sans’s mouth twitched and the blue tint returned, offsetting your own red blush. Perhaps you shouldn’t have said that.

“yeah, i was kind of a bone-head.” The lights of his eyes were focused on the tabletop, but flickered back up to you. “so i’m sorry.”

You want to assure him that it’s totally fine, but the way he’s looking at you... your throat seizes for a moment. You’ve never really had a good look at either of them- your eyes always cast downward when you pass them, after all. Papyrus doesn’t have pupils like Sans does, and now you can tell that Sans’s are oddly expressive. Human enough to be familiar, but different enough that you kind of want to stare at them for a while. They cast a dim glow on his eyesockets.

“so, uh.” He looks away, and you realize that you haven’t replied to his apology.

“I’m sorry. Too, I mean.” You recover, and pour the mix into the bowl. It occurs to you that this is the longest conversation you’ve had with anyone other than your therapist. And Sans seems genuinely remorseful, so... well, it wasn’t as if you’d really blamed him in full for anything.

Except maybe for the coupon thing, but you don’t want to bring it up.

Neither of you say anything for a long moment, and things are beginning to feel awkward again until Papyrus throws his door open and holds out a very large book.

“Here we are! ‘Baking With Mettaton: The Fourteenth Edition!’” Papyrus looks very pleased with himself as he hands you the book, which is as big and heavy as a textbook. It has a picture of Mettaton on the cover in an apron, with a wide array of cakes spread out on a table. They are all very fancy, and you assume enchanted, because some are on perpetual fire. None of them look like they’re beginner-friendly.

“Oh, thank you.” you smile weakly and heft the book onto the counter. You don’t have the heart to tell him that you already have a recipe on your phone, so you skim through the pages until you find something vaguely simple. There are snail shells decorating it, but you figure Papyrus won’t notice if you substitute. The ingredients don’t account for things like cake mix or pre-made icing either, so you’ll just have to pretend to look at it.

“Not to worry, Housemate! I, the Great Papyrus, shall supervise.” He pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs, but pauses before sitting down. “Oh, but only so long as you’re comfortable.”

His concern is reassuring, though you’ve never cooked while other people just watched before. You can already feel goosebumps prickling on your skin at the thought. What if you’re too slow, or start to screw up? Having company is one thing; having an audience is another altogether.

“I, um, would rather you guys... um, do something? While you’re here?” You wince as it comes out, and try to clarify. “Like a board game or something. I don’t really like to be watched. If that’s ok.”

You fret that they’re going to take it badly, or decide that really, you’re not worth this effort. But Papyrus only rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Hmmmmmmm, a game. Sans, what do you think? Trouble is no fun with only two players.”

Sans shrugs and, from the pocket in his hoodie, pulls out a deck of cards. “how ‘bout go fish?”

“Perfect!”

The two of them start to deal the cards while you stand there, feeling a little bewildered. He just carried a pack of cards in his hoodie? But it passes, and even though you still feel self-conscious about every move, you aren’t feeling an overwhelming desire to escape as quickly as you can. It’s a strange, quiet little arrangement, as you keep discreetly checking your phone for instructions and the two of them play.

You don’t offer any more conversation, but neither of them call you on it or seem to expect anything at all. There’s only the soft thwip of playing cards, the good-natured banter of Go Fish and the sound of your whisk as it mixes the bowl.

It’s not perfect, but it’s more than you expected. And that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys and your input are super helpful! This is gonna be a long story, so I hope you're buckled in for more awkwardness as the plot starts to ramp up.


	8. Burger Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are burgers, a Doggo and 2B deals with people.

“come on. let’s grab some food.”

You turn from your perusal of the kitchen cupboard to blink at Sans.

“Eh?”

He is standing on the other side of the table, smiling and expectant. He wears the same hoodie and gym shorts as always, with pink crocs this time as opposed to slippers. Over the last two weeks you’ve learned that Sans doesn’t exactly believe in fashion as a whole; if it weren’t for school, he might never change his outfit at all. You’re beginning to suspect he buys his clothes in bulk.

The knowledge has come with no small amount of effort. Since your little breakdown, you’ve made it your mission to spend at least one hour downstairs a day. For anybody else it wouldn’t seem like much, but for you it’s tiring and nerve wracking. There’s always the fear of embarrassing yourself, even doing things as simple as cooking or homework. There have been one or two days where you’ve deliberately made sure Sans and Papyrus aren’t around for your little trials, but for the most part you have swallowed your fear and gone about your business regardless of company. And, to your surprise, things have gone rather smoothly.

Papyrus has no concept of awkwardness, or none that you’ve seen. He likes to talk but doesn’t mind that you can’t contribute very much; he accepts your mumbles and scrambled words with grace and continues on as if you were Shakespeare himself. It lets you wind down from the initial panic of a conversation and just practice responding honestly, and by the end you can get full sentences out before backtracking or apologizing. Sans is trickier, because he is naturally quieter than his brother and less likely to take the lead in doing the talking. It would be easier if he were as expressive as Papyrus, but Sans always seems to have the same blank, happy expression. Determining his emotions is a struggle, and makes you second-guess everything you say, in part because you are afraid to damage the understanding you’ve come to. All in all you are much more comfortable with Papyrus, though you have been _trying_ to engage in small talk with the shorter skeleton.

So it is a complete surprise when Sans invites you, socially inept attic-dweller, to grab food. You don’t know how to respond.

“there’s no food in the house.” Sans gestures to the cupboard you’d currently been scrounging through, and he is correct; your supply of quick dinners and ramen noodles has finally run out. Normally you’re good about keeping track of this sort of thing, but Papyrus likes to leave leftovers for you sometimes and it has screwed up your grocery schedule.

“Oh, um.” Your first instinct is to come up with an excuse, but when you actually go for one, you blank out. It’s a Friday so you can’t claim homework, and saying you have plans would be laughable. So you try to sidestep the issue. “Wouldn’t you rather, you know, go with your brother?”

“pap’s hanging out with a mutual friend.” Sans replies. “i know this place with great food, and if i’m gonna have to make the trip there, i’d rather have company.” 

Oh, well, there went that angle.

“I-I mean, I...” You close the cupboard quietly and fiddle with the fringe on your shirt. “I don’t really have anything to _wear_ , and you know I’m not really good at talking...”

Sans raises a brow. “look, if you don’t want to go with me, just say so. i won’t be mad.” 

Damn it. _Guilt._

As nervous as you are at the prospect, even you can see that refusing now would be rude. You have no legitimate reason not to go, besides your own weird little brain, and anybody else would have already accepted the offer. It comes down to deciding between the possibility of screwing up later, or actively screwing up now.

Logically, there’s only one choice.

“No, no, I... just let me grab my wallet.” You smile weakly and rush upstairs, feeling his eyes on your back.

You rummage through your closet for the purse you never use; a plain black thing you picked up at a garage sale the last time you went to visit your sister and mother. They like to chide you on your “homeless hipster” look, as they call it, though you really just throw on whatever is clean and suitable for the situation. You usually carry around a laptop bag, but it isn’t appropriate to go out with, so the purse was an occasional necessity. It’s empty, except for a few receipts, so you throw in your wallet and phone. You quickly check yourself in your mirror for any stains and comb out a few stray hairs with your fingers. 

That’s as good as you’ll get, you think, and briefly consider locking the door and staying upstairs until Sans gets bored. Briefly.

When you get back downstairs Sans is at the front door, waiting in that same relaxed, hands-in-pockets pose he’s perfected. His eyes crinkle as you approach.

“thoughtcha might not come back down.” He says, and you chuckle nervously. He’s better at reading you than you thought.

He opens the front door and you go ahead, walking out onto the porch. The sky is lit up in pinks and blues over the trees in the park and the buildings beyond them. It was probably half past six by now, and cooling down somewhat from the sweltering heat earlier. You rarely go out around this time, with most of your classes in the morning, and you have to admit it’s a nice change. 

Sans closes the front door and he makes for the steps to the sidewalk, and you follow along. His pace is leisurely and slow, and so unlike your usually quick and purposeful gait. You could chalk it up to your height and longer legs, but then, he has no muscles. You aren’t sure if the same rules apply to monsters. Regardless, since he’s leading the way, you have no choice but to match his speed and walk beside him.

“you like burgers, right?”

“Yeah.” You reply. Then you wonder if that sounded insincere. “I mean, for sure. I really like them." 

“good. it’s not a fancy place, and doesn’t have a big menu, but it’s cozy and full of nice people.” His mouth twitches upwards, and his eyes brighten a little, and you take that as a sign he really likes the place. It’s reassuring; you didn’t really want to go to a busy restaurant, full of people and movement. Seeing the exhausted waiters and waitresses rushing around with exasperated tones always made you clam up.

“Is it far away? From us, I mean. Do we need to take the bus?”

“nah, it’s just a few blocks away.” Sans pointed up at the major intersection ahead, where the quiet residences stopped and the local shops began. It’d been a long while since you were there, and you wracked your brain trying to remember just what restaurants fit the bill. Not that you’d ever really been in them, but you might recall a storefront.

As you continue along, monitoring your pace so as not to seem impatient, you begin to notice that the ratio of monsters to humans walking around is different than before. You and Sans pass by two salamander-men in suits, several bunny-people and a disgruntled-looking cat-man in a burger cart. Several of them give you odd looks as you pass by, and you feel very self-conscious. You grip the strap of your purse in an effort to calm yourself as you think. 

Is there something wrong with your clothes? Your hair, maybe? 

“don’t mind them.” Sans’s voice cuts through the fog of worry and you give him a questioning look. He shrugs. “they know me, and where i’m headed. don’t usually walk around with humans though.”

Oh. You haven’t really thought about it before, but it makes sense for Sans to be recognizable; he is a skeleton, and from what you’ve gleaned from the internet they aren’t terribly common. The majority of monsters were anthropomorphic, with animal features, or ectoplasmic, like ghosts and slimes. It has something to do with how much magic is needed to keep the monster’s body working, though you don’t know the details.

As the two of you reach the line of storefronts, it’s immediately apparent that things have changed since you were last here. The usual generic shops now proudly advertise “monster-friendly” products, most of which you don’t recognize. The corner store apparently sells snail slushies, and posters of Mettaton fill the windows. Many of the buildings have flags with a symbol that strikes you as familiar, though you can’t place it; there’s a circle flanked by wings, and three triangles underneath it. You want to ask Sans about it, but perhaps it’s common knowledge and it’ll only showcase your ignorance. The neighbourhood has clearly become the monster village district.

Sans gestures to one of the buildings, and it appears to be a renovated pub. “here we go. grillby’s.”

It’s an older place, all red brick, offset by a prominent neon sign that confirms the name. There’s a large window in the front, but the glass is missing and the space is boarded up. There’s not one, but two bouncers; a beefy dragon-esque man and an equally muscled bunny-man. They both wear grey slacks and black t-shirts and stand on either side of the door. As the two of you approach, the bunny-man grins at Sans. 

“Look who it is! Walking like us regular folk, bro?” He says, and you’re surprised at the frat-boy accent. The dragon guy grunts in turn.

“thought i’d take the long way round this time.” Sans replies and then uses one of his hands to gently push you forward. “archie, reggie, this my friend 2b. she’s got me vouching for her, so go easy.” 

“Go easy? Wait-” You shoot Sans a questioning look, but the dragon bouncer starts patting you down and you freeze up in surprise. He’s gentle and doesn’t linger, but you can’t help flinching when he touches your back. The bunny bouncer tugs your purse off your stiff arm and gives it a quick check before handing it back. Both seem satisfied and step back into their respective positions. You, meanwhile, take a minute to process what just happened.

“Sorry, 2B.” The bunny bouncer says. “Gotta be careful, even with Sans’s friends.”

You nod weakly; you’ve never been to club or bar before, but you’ve heard of pat-downs in movies and books. It’s more a surprise because you had thought Sans was taking you to a diner, not someplace that required security. It confuses you more when they allow Sans through the front door without checking him at all, even though he has a lot more pockets than you do. 

“Um,” You start, following him inside and about to ask exactly what the security is all about, but your words die in your throat as you take in the room. There are booths and a bar, typical fare, but the room is filled with monsters. Maybe you should have guessed the exclusivity already, but it’s still a shock to see so many monsters in one place. Most of them aren’t even recognizable; a ghost is seated at a booth with what looks like a strange bird made of ice, and the card table in the corner is surrounded by several slime creatures with no faces. It feels as if you’ve walked into some strange video game.

The smart thing, you decide, is to stick to Sans like glue. You follow him as he lazily crosses the room, waving to several patrons and getting enthusiastic responses in return.

“Yo, Sansy! You’re late!”

“Ain’t seen you since lunch. Too good for us now?”

“Who’s the human?”

The last is directed at you, and it’s hard to ignore how many of the monsters are watching you curiously. It doesn’t take long to notice that you’re the only human in the room, and not all of the looks are friendly. You keep your head down and instinctively shift a little behind Sans, who just smiles and thumbs in your direction.

“this is 2b. She’s a friend of me and pap, and makes a mean cake. wanted to show her how great grillby’s burgers are.”

Immediately the monsters all flash you big, sincere smiles. The abrupt change nearly makes you jump, but you maintain the presence of mind to smile back and give a little wave. You hadn’t really expected to have to introduce yourself, just to grab some food.

“U-uh, hi. Nice to meet you all.”

It feels like there’s a collective nod of approval, and then everybody just goes back to what they were doing. You release the breath of air caught in your lungs and turn back to Sans, only to see him already at the bar. For a guy who moves so slow, he does still manage to surprise you.

“yo, grillbz.” He is talking to the bartender, who you realize is a tall gentleman in glasses and a tie. Made entirely of fire. “one burger for the lady, and the usual for me.”

Grillby, you assume, nods and turns to the counter behind him. You approach Sans, and over his shoulder can see Grillby reaching into a fridge for a burger patty. You question the lack of a stove or grill, but then watch in awe as Grillby just calmly holds the patty between two hands until the meat darkens. The name speaks for itself, apparently.

“That’s, um, really cool.” You venture, and Grillby nods silently. The burger is done in less than a minute, and he puts it on a bun with the regular fixings. Unlike the patty, he doesn’t even so much as heat up the lettuce and pickles. It’s the first time you’ve seen proper magic, and you can’t help leaning over the counter to try and get a better look.

It does occur to you that he’s only making one meal, though. Grillby hands over a plate with the burger, and you take it gingerly, expecting to see him turn back and start working on whatever Sans’s regular is. Instead, Grillby reaches under the counter and pulls out a glass ketchup bottle.

“O-oh, I’m ok, I don’t really like-” you begin, but Grillby slides it over to Sans. Sans picks it up with nod and grins at you before gesturing to an empty booth.

“shall we?”

Dazed and confused, you follow along and slide onto the bench at the table. Sans takes the opposite one, still holding that bottle.

“Aren’t you hungry?” You can’t help but ask, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. Did he only come here because _you_ were out of food? Being the only one to eat would be very awkward. “I mean, did you already eat, or-?”

“sure i’m hungry.” Sans replies and, without missing a beat, opens the bottle and takes a swig.

Of the ketchup.

This many surprises in one day can’t be good for your health, you think distantly, as he sets the bottle down. With Papyrus being such a determined chef, you thought that Sans ate whatever he made. Plain ketchup implies a very odd set of tastes. Though, it does explain the recycling bin full of condiment bottles without any other food packaging. 

He must see the shocked look on your face because he chuckles in amusement, eye sockets crinkling and his grin getting wider.

“your burger’s getting cold.” He points out, and you recover and pick up your meal. It smells really good, but it’s been a while since you ate in front of anyone, so you take a delicate bite to avoid making a mess.

“you, uh, really are kinda skittish, aren’t ya?”

You stiffen and look up. You’d thought the last few weeks might have settled that question, plus warning him that you weren’t good company. Despite it all he props his skull up with one hand and watches you with unmasked curiosity. 

“Well, um, yeah.” You reply after a pause, choosing your words. “I mean, I’m not scared of you in particular. If that’s what you mean.”

He doesn’t move his gaze away. “can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason for it.”

Well, hell.

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for that.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you hope it delivers a note of finality. If Sans is bothered by it, he hides it well; he just shrugs and takes another sip of his ketchup bottle.

“fair enough, i’ll change the topic. got any family?”

“My mom and sister.” Those two, at least, you have no problem discussing. “My mom designs clothes, and my younger sister Kathy landed her first job at a law firm. And my mom is getting remarried, so I’ll have three new stepsisters in two months." 

Sans whistles, which is pretty impressive, since he has no lips. “big family.”

“Um, what about you?”

“hmm?” 

“I mean, you know, family. I know you have Papyrus, but what about your parents?”

Sans’s smile doesn’t waver, but he sits up a little straighter and idly plays with the ketchup bottle with one hand. He spins it one way and then the other, and you’re beginning to regret asking.

“our dad was the royal scientist for a long time.” His voice is calm and even. “there was an... accident. long story short, it’s jus been me an’ papyrus for a long time.”

Your heart sinks. As interesting as the relationship with your family is, you can’t even imagine not having your mom.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to... you know, bring up bad memories. Were you very young?”

Sans shrugs, but whatever nonchalance he’s going for seems insincere, given the topic. “i was twelve, pap was six.”

So young. You have a horrible image of two little skeletons in kid’s clothes all alone, and you study Sans just a bit more closely. His smile seems very practised, and it hits you that Sans probably raised Papyrus by himself. You’re a big sister yourself; you know that if you were in a similar situation, you would be very good at putting on a straight face. No wonder his expressions are hard to read.

“You’re a good big brother.” You blurt out, and when Sans’s eyes widen you realize that you might be overstepping your bounds. Who were you to tell him that? “I, uh, mean... Papyrus seems pretty happy. You must have worked very hard.”

His eyes are fixed on you for a full second before he looks away, one hand scratching the back of his skull. His cheekbones have a bluish tinge to them. 

“thanks.” He keeps his gaze averted, and you hope you haven’t offended him somehow. “nobody’s, uh, ever told me that before.” 

Your brows crinkle in confusion. Maybe it’s the oddness of the situation, or the magic burger you’ve started eating, but you feel comfortable enough to keep the conversation going. Normally you would have clammed up by now.

“Really? It seems to me that, um, well...” You rub your wrists and study the grain of the wooden table. “...that you were handed a bad situation and things turned out ok. I mean, you’re studying quantum physics, and Papyrus is a pretty good cook, so...”

You aren’t exactly sure where you were going with this, so you shrug nervously and pick up your burger again. “I just, um, I’d be pretty proud. If I were you.”

You take another bite of your burger while Sans seems to contemplate what you’ve said. In the meantime you go over what you said, just to make sure you didn’t say anything offensive or inappropriate. Not that you’d know for sure, with your lack of experience, but, well. It’s not like you can exactly stop yourself thinking about it.

“you know,” He finally says, and his smile seems much more relaxed this time, “you’re more observant than i think you give yourself credit for. really _saw right through me._ ”

You can’t help tilting your head. The emphasis is a bit confusing. “Pardon?”

“saw through me.” He repeats, and gestures to himself. “skeleton. no skin.” 

It takes a lot to resist the urge to slap your forehead. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. I’m not very good at picking up on jokes.”

“you don’t like them?” 

“Oh, no, not that, I just... um, sometimes they kinda go over my head?” You fidget and manage a sheepish smile. “Unless it’s like, a comedy show or something. Then I know to look for it. But um, I’m more of a... I don’t know, comedy act fan. Improv and stuff like that.” 

Though, to be honest, part of your difficulty with jokes is that it involves reading people’s tones and cues. You naturally keep your head down and avoid eye contact, which makes it hard to read emotions or remember faces. Comedy shows are on a screen, which removes the anxiety of proximity. 

Sans taps his chin with one of his phalanges, and the motion makes a dull clacking sound. He’s either thinking intently, studying you or both. You’re not sure. 

“so what you’re saying is...” He tilts his skull a little, and he sounds amused. “if i wanna make you laugh, i gotta up my game. that right?”

Your mouth goes dry. His tone is entirely too... well, you’re not sure, honestly. Interested, maybe. Like he means to make good on his word. Normally people don’t make claims that promise more interaction, unless it’s a half-hearted ‘let’s talk again sometime.’ You take those as cue that the person has already decided whether they want to see you again, but Sans sounds _sincere_. How do you respond? 

“Oh, um, well,” You flounder. Your fingers play with the rim of your plate, tapping out the rhythm of your anxiety into the porcelain. “If you want to, I guess?” 

Smooth. Real smooth.

“great. From now on,” Sans pulls out his cellphone; a dingy, white plastic thing from no company you’re familiar with. “we’ll meet here every saturday, and i can practice my routine on you.”

Your heartbeat stutters and your blood goes cold. 

_What?_  

“huh, i guess we forgot to get you a drink.” Sans sidles out of the booth while your brain works through what he just said. “be right back.” 

“W-wait-!” You squeak, but he is already weaving in between other monster patrons and out of sight before you can form a proper protest. It leaves you to sit alone, stunned and confused. 

Hanging out here once was all you’d expected, but now it was apparently going to become a weekly thing. Why? You live in the same house; if he wanted to he could just test jokes on you there. 

You’re trying to come up with a sufficient excuse to get yourself out of this dilemma when a dog-monster promptly slams his hands down on the tabletop, causing you to jump in surprise.

“Hey, human!” The dog is mostly white, with a black mask colouring on his head, and wearing a bright pink shirt and spotted pants. You’re surprised you didn’t see him approach; he’s certainly a conspicuous character. He smells like some kind of burnt jerky. “You’re friends with Sans, right?”

“More like, um, acquaintances?” You reply weakly. For all that Sans is being nice, you can’t really say that you’re very friendly yet. Especially if this guy knows him.

“Name’s Doggo.” He thumbs to himself; he’s very gestural, and his voice is deep. “You move alot, so I can see you. I can only see you if you move, ya see.” 

Your brows furrow in further confusion. “Like a... T-Rex?” 

He beams, baring row upon row of sharp teeth. “Gotcha! Anyway, I was gonna ask; do you know the human that made Papyrus cry a while back?” 

Your face freezes a smile in place. You still feel horrible about that, but you have a sneaking suspicion that admitting to it would be a bad idea. You have no idea who this guy is, or what his intentions are. Better, you think, to pretend ignorance.

“Can’t say I know anyone like that.” You reply, trying to stifle a waver in your voice.

“Oh.” Doggo’s shoulders slump. “That’s a shame. Papyrus is a goofy guy, but he never plays pranks on me. I don’t want a bad human being mean to him.”

“Well, um,” You fidget in your seat, “I’m sure they aren’t, you know, _bad_. Maybe they feel sorry about it.” 

“They’re gonna feel real sorry about it when Undyne gets ahold of them.” Doggo barked out a laugh. You feel your stomach twist. 

“Um, who is...?”

“Oh, Undyne? She’s the leader of the Royal Guard. She’s also good friends with Papyrus, and she’s been seething about the human for weeks.”

You can feel your polite smile beginning to twitch painfully. Leader of the Royal Guard? That sounded dangerous. And possibly violent.

“yo. having a chat?”

Sans is suddenly beside Doggo, a soda in hand and looking between the two of you with curiosity. 

“Just askin’ about your roommate. You know, the mean one. The one everyone hates.” Doggo replies, and you fix Sans with a look of panic. 

“ah, them.” Sans just shrugs nonchalantly and slips back into his seat. “wouldn’t worry about it. pretty sure it’s sorted out.” 

“Whatever you say. It was nice to meet you, human!” Doggo nodded firmly and turned on his heel, back towards a table of other dog monsters. When he’s gone you let loose the air trapped in your lungs and bury your head in your hands. 

“hey, uh, you ok...?” 

“Can we go?” Your voice comes out softer and more pathetic than you want. There’s a pause, and you’re afraid Sans is going to refuse, but then hear him shifting out of his seat again.

“sure, no problem.” 

A quarter of your burger is still left, but your appetite is gone. You grab the plate and shift past Sans, up to the counter and slide the plate gently towards Grillby. The flame monster cocks his head. 

“It was really good, but I, uh, have to be somewhere. Here.” You rifle through your wallet and pull out a twenty and a five. “Will this cover us?”

He nods and takes the money. You shove your wallet back into your purse, and turn around; Sans stands there, his brows tilted into what you recognize as concern.

“hey, you didn’t have to pay for me. you alright?” He asks. You grip your purse tighter. 

“I just want to go. Please.” Before he has a chance to respond, you gently move around him and move towards the door. The pounding in your ears drowns out the crowd. 

It’s dark outside, and Archie and Reggie nod at you as you exit the pub. You know Sans is following because the door opens and closes behind you again. You quietly keep walking until the bouncers are out of earshot, and finally turn around. Sans stops as well, hands in his pockets. He still looks worried, and that makes you feel bad. 

“I’m... really sorry.” You exhale harshly and run your hand through your hair. “I just, um. All your friends hate me, I guess?” 

Sans, to your aggravation, just shrugs again. “don’t worry, i’m fixing that. they just don’t know you yet.” 

“Yet?” Your voice goes shrill and incredulous, and for a moment you don’t care what you sound like. Perhaps you’ve just tired yourself out to much for one day, but your frustration outweighs your fear. “Have you met me? I’m the master of bad impressions!”

“you did alright today.” Sans replies evenly. 

“I...!” You struggle not to scream into your hands. Doesn’t he get it? If he could think of you as a racist piece of garbage, then it would take very little for the rumour mill to turn that into something even worse. Not to mention that some woman named Undyne had you on her shit list. And if it took a cake and card, coupled with a mental breakdown, to clear your name just to Sans and Papyrus... what would it take to fix _this_ problem? A blimp with an apology banner?

Of course, you don’t say any of that.

“You... you don’t know me.” You finally sigh. “It’ll go wrong. It always does.”

There’s a long pause between the two of you. Then, Sans roots around in his hoodie pocket and pulls out the can of soda that he’d had earlier. The one he went to get but never got a chance to give you, because your need to leave. He then, to your surprise, takes your hand and presses the can into it. 

“you’re right.” He says, looking from the can up into your face. He lets go when your fingers close around it and shoves his hands into his pockets again. “i don’t know you.”

You’re not sure what that’s supposed to prove, until he leans in just a little and grins wide enough that you can see the slope of his canines. They are significantly sharper than you thought. “ _yet._ ” 

The word is laced with a promise, and every hair on your body stands up. You’re uneasy and curious all at once, along with a tiny bit of fear.

He takes advantage of your stunned silence by turning around and heading back towards Grillby’s, but without turning back, he waves with one skeletal hand.

“don’t forget, next saturday. i’ll text you the time.”

He’s gone long by the time you regain movement and have the time to run the night’s whirlwind of events through your head. 

What exactly have you walked into this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I hope I made up for it in length. Please keep being an awesome audience; I couldn't do it without you!
> 
> P.S If you guys wanna contact me, my skype username is factcore. I love talking Undertale, but if you're reading this fic then I assume you are 18+. Please no one under that age; I'm in my twenties, peeps.


	9. Knock on Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild Undyne appears and Papyrus learns how to cross the street.

It is only a few days later that the weather finally ramps up from a dry warmth to a humid blaze; a bit late into the season, but it wasn’t something you would complain about. Though you certainly prefer the heat to the cold, sweating through your supply of t-shirts and jeans isn’t comfortable. Old houses like yours don’t have air conditioning, so your only source of relief is the rickety standing fan in the corner. It tries its best, but you’re seriously debating lugging home a new one.

In the meantime, with your immediate homework finished, you’re determined to get in some good reading before the school year fully starts. This is how you find yourself dressed down to just a pair of boxers and your bra, idly thumbing through one of your older novels. Having a locking door afforded you this luxury, and there was a decadent thrill in being so bare in the afternoon. You might even have felt a bit guilty if it wasn’t so comfortable. The book, however, is a bit dull.

You sigh and flip another page. You’ve read this one several times, a story about a Texan heiress who escapes a bad marriage and falls into the arms of a rugged businessman. The writing is good but it was predictable the first time you read it, much less the fourth. Much as you love to read, it’s hard to justify purchases when there’s a library nearby, and the last one you bought...

Hmm.

You set the book aside and reach into your bedside table. There’s the novel you bought before, about the librarian who makes cheesy jokes. The title is “Stars and Garters”, which in hindsight is kind of funny, given that the librarian is an aspiring astrophysicist and the leading lady has a thing for lingerie.

You had stuffed the book into the dark recesses of your side table because the love interest was... well, maybe a little like Sans. But you’re nothing if not frugal, and wasting a perfectly good book is not in your nature. Besides, you probably only thought that because Sans and you had been on rocky footing, and you’d been preoccupied. Surely now it wouldn’t be so distracting.

Determined, you search through the pages for where you’d left off. The couple, Irene and James, are just finishing up their second date. The library was on the verge of being shut down, and Irene is an author who teamed up with James to help save it. Not exactly a gripping plot, but you were used to that by now.

_“Do you want to come upstairs?” Irene ventured, feeling bolder than she felt._

_James paused at the door, hand poised at the doorknob. As if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing._

_“Are you... sure?” He asked, turning around slowly._

You settle back into the pillows of your bed and continue to read. You’re not a prude by any means, and not unfamiliar with sex. People always assume you’re a virgin, and it’s understandable given your situation. It is, however, much easier without relationships tangling things up. Hence, smutty novels; the relationship is done for you.

Irene reached out and clasped onto James’s face, aching with want. He was so different from the others she’d dated; rugged, tall men with dark countenances. She’d never thought she could fall for a pale, smiling intellectual before she’d met him.

You frown. Okay, so, maybe even the appearance is similar, in a fashion. It shouldn’t bother you, but it does cause you to... wonder, a little. You have no idea how monsters reproduce, though you must assume it has something to do with magic. Sans clearly has no skin or muscle, so you suppose physical intimacy must be different. Kissing, for example, would be out of the question.

Your thoughts drift away from the book as you ponder. They could be asexual for all you know. Maybe they are literally undead skeletons of once-living humans? In either case, romance would be a great deal more complicated than anything in your book. Impossible, even. But, then, Sans also has the ability to eat and move with magic, so you really don’t know the limitations of his body. Perhaps he-

A quick shake of your head and you tighten your grip on the book, forcing yourself to focus. Whatever your curiosities, daydreaming about your barely-friendly skeleton roommate seems like a very bad idea. Anxiety has a nasty way of grabbing onto uncomfortable thoughts and bringing them up at the worst of times, and this seems like exactly the sort of thing that could complicate things, regardless of whether you could ever actually like him.

So, begrudgingly, you shove the book back into its little drawer and shut it firmly.

BANG!

Just as you do so, the whole room shakes, and it coincides so perfectly that for a dazed second you think you might have just caused an earthquake. It happens again, though, and you have to grab your lamp to keep it from falling off the table. A whirlwind of horrible possibilities fills your brain; an explosion? A natural disaster?

“HEY, HUMAN! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!”

You freeze. The voice is coming from outside, and it is vaguely familiar. Scratchy and deep but also most likely woman’s... wait...

The loud sound and shaking happen again, and you realize that whoever it is must be knocking on the door. Or the doorframe, most likely, since this much force would have almost certainly caved the door in.

For a moment you debate going down. Whoever it is, they sound dangerous and angry, which hardly spells safety for you. But then, at this rate the house might just cave in, and you should at least see what they look like if you have to call 911. When you peek out the window, the porch roof blocks your view, so you really do have no choice.

“U-um... I’m coming down!” You call out the window, careful to hide your barely-covered chest. “Please don’t break the door!”

You quickly throw on some clothes and hurry down the stairs, phone in hand. For good measure you type out 911 into the phone, but don’t press call just yet. You’d heard once that this was a good idea when going into a dangerous situation. You feel jittery and frightened, but when you reach the kitchen area, you see Sans.

On the couch.

Napping.

Oh my god, you think, feeling a little delirious. Did he not hear? The house was shaking like the world was ending! How could he be sleeping?

On cue the house rattles again, and you can hear whoever is at the door loudly grumbling in unintelligible syllables. They at least have manners, you try to comfort yourself; with that much power, they could just tear the door off its hinges if they really wanted to.

“Sans!” You hiss, and poke his shoulder. He only shifts slightly. It’s a struggle not to bury your head in your hands and scream. Instead, you grab his shoulder and shake it a bit more roughly. This time, a eyesocket pops open and dimly flickers to life.

“eh?” He sees you and blinks himself awake. He must see the paleness of your face because he sits up. “what’s up, 2b?”

“There’s someone at the door!” It comes out as a whisper, and you gesture widely to the door. He looks in the direction you point to and, to your dismay, just shrugs.

“that, uh, happens sometimes.”

You stare at him, feeling like a spring somewhere in your head has just snapped.

_Is he serious?_

The house vibrates with the force of another knock and you squeak, grabbing the arm of the couch for support. Sans, again, shows no open concern, except that he reaches out and grips your arm, steadying it. You almost jerk away but catch yourself; he’s not doing it maliciously. He’s trying to help, so you force yourself to relax... in this regard, at least.

“sorry, i’m kinda used to noise. i sleep like the dead.” He offers a grin, and you honestly think you might be going insane. You step away and grab onto the kitchen table to steady yourself, and swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Can you just help me? With whoever is there, please?” Your fingernails dig tiny crescent moons into the kitchen table and your hands turn white. You are so, so close to a panic attack... but you can fight it back. So long as he doesn’t make another joke right now.

“oh. sure.” Sans, calm as ever, stands up and stretches under your anxious gaze. He then moves towards the door and you follow; quiet as a mouse and double-checking your phone to make sure it still reads the right three numbers. His nonchalance is infuriating, but you’re a little too freaked out right now to focus on it.

Sans pulls the door open and you flinch, awaiting some horrifyingly huge person or monster. Instead, you see the one-eyed fish-woman you had seen at the little party about a month back. The one who had glared at you. The resemblance to that day is striking because she is absolutely seething, though a bit thrown back by the sight of Sans. She is blue, humanoid and red-haired, and has the physique of an athlete. And the teeth of a shark.

“Sans.” She barks her words and her lone eye strikes daggers at you. “I’m here to deal with the monster-hater.”

You tense and shift a little further behind Sans. The fact that there were a bunch of monsters who hate your guts wasn’t a surprise, not after that trip to Grillby’s. It was, however, a little shocking to know that they’d actually show up at your house and threaten you. Especially a blue-skinned shark woman.

“monster-hater?” Sans cocks his head, as if the idea is totally new to him.

“Yes, _her_.” She gestures to you, all teeth and fury. “She made Papyrus cry, didn’t she?”

You stifle a wince. Not your proudest moment.

“well, yeah.” Sans shrugs again and, to your great discomfort, places his hand on the small of your back and pushes you forward. He has a habit of doing that, you think, and you don’t like it all that much. You can’t complain though, because he’s apparently your lifeline right now. “but she’s already been dealt with. totally tamed by yours truly.”

There is a real urge to smack him for implying to have tamed you, but Undyne’s eyebrows raise up, and you realize that this must be the Undyne that Doggo warned you about. The leader of the Royal Guard. Her disbelief is even greater than your own. “What, you? You can’t even stay awake for more than a few hours!”

You have to agree with her there.

“well, look. does 2b here seem like a threat?” Sans gestures to you and you shrink a little under Undyne’s piercing, scanning gaze.

“U-um, hi.” You venture, and her forehead scrunches up. “I, uh, had some misunderstandings with Sans and Papyrus. I really didn’t mean to be, well, mean. To anybody. At all.”

Undyne stares at you for a long moment, just as intensely, before her fisted hands relax. Her frown fails to disappear, however.

“Look, 2B.” Undyne scowls, and you wonder if you’re ever going to lose that nickname now. “The only thing I trust here is Sans’ judgement. He’d never tolerate anybody who was a danger to Papyrus. That said...”

She leans in, so close that if you weren’t sandwiched between her and Sans, you might have fallen backwards.

“I expect you to be the nicest, friendliest, most perfect human to grace this planet from now on. Or else.”

She immediately pulls back, sucking the air out of your lungs as she does. Then her mouth twists into a huge, toothy grin and she turns back to Sans.

“Alrighty then! Now that that’s done, you ready for tonight? Still on for eight?”

You timidly move aside so their line of sight isn’t filled by you. A tiny dizzy spell washes over you and there’s cold sweat on the back of your neck, but you hide it well as they chat. Nobody has ever openly threatened you before; you explicitly avoid conflict as a whole. Not to mention her demands might be a little much for you to handle.

Thoughts spin around in your head. Should you leave and let them talk, or will she take your getaway as proof of your rudeness? Is she going to check up on you to make sure you haven’t upset the brothers? Is it too late to break the lease?

“Yo, humie!”

You jerk and look up, offering a weak smile. “Yes?” The two of them are looking at you as if you should have been listening, and your pale face flushes.

“You’re coming with us tonight. Better put your happy face on!” Undyne grins, and you want to panic. Going? Where? Oh god, this was like Grillby’s all over again. “I gotta go grab Alphys, so be ready, dorks!”

It’s then that she waves and turns around, heading down the short path to the roadside. She hops onto a motorcycle you hadn’t noticed before and drives away, leaving the two of you standing in the doorway.

Once you’re sure she’s gone, you release the lungful of air you’d been holding and look down at Sans.

“Is she, uh, a friend of yours?”

“kind of my old boss. good friend of pap’s, though.” Sans replies. He pushes the door a bit wider and you obediently move through first. You’re still very shaken, but you have the presence of mind that there’s information you need.

“S-so, um... where are we going? Exactly?”

“to a friend’s house. it’s just a little get-together, we won’t be there too late.” Sans takes up his previous spot on the couch, leaning back and wrapping his arms around the back of the couch. His easy attitude is quite admirable, you have to admit; it would make your life a lot easier. “don’t worry, i’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“Uh, thanks.” You say.”There isn’t any chance, of, um, skipping out, is there?”

His blank smile answers your question.

“look, uh, i know this ain’t your thing... but it would set undyne at ease. and she’s well known ‘round these parts.” Sans explains, one skeletal hand shifting around in a circular motion. “with her good word, nobody’ll bother you anymore. like muffet.”

The name sounds familiar. “Muffet?”

Sans shakes his head. “forget it. anyway, it’s an informal thing, and pap will love it if you come. plus, i can try out some jokes on you. remember?”

How could you forget? You couldn’t say that parties made you terribly relaxed though, so you couldn’t say how receptive you’d be. Still, it was clear that you couldn’t get out of going.

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose.

“Ok, I guess I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

  
It is an hour later that you find yourself pushing cart after Papyrus through the grocery store.

As always, he is endlessly excited about everything. Already the cart is sporting a hefty pile of pasta and pasta sauce, and several different types of cheeses, and you’re barely halfway down the pasta aisle. Every so often he will squeal in delight, point out something or other and it’ll go into the cart. You, meanwhile, nod quietly and dutifully push the growing pile along.

“OH, ROOMMATE! THIS IS ABSOLUTELY- oh, sorry.” His voice drops when he looks over at you, looking a little sheepish. “I know you don’t like loudness.”

Wait, this whole time he’s been lowering his natural voice? For you? “That’s, um, totally fine. Really. I don’t like surprises, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” Papyrus tilts his head and puts his hands on his jean-clad hipbones.

“Just, maybe... not out and about, then. There’s kind of an unspoken rule about indoor voices.” It hasn’t escaped your notice that many other shoppers have been shooting the two of you odd looks, though you doubt it’s his voice causing it. Normally being watched makes you very edgy, and it still does, but you’re also a little annoyed on Papyrus’s behalf. He shouldn’t have to worry about people’s rudeness, being such a nice guy.

Speaking of which, at the end of the aisle a mother and her daughter are about to turn into the row. Once the mother sees Papyrus, however, she scowls and drags her daughter straight past and into the next one. An unfamiliar protective urge takes you and you force a smile onto your face.

“C’mon, aren’t we going to be late for the party? You still need to cook this for everybody.”

“Oh, roommate, you’re right!” Papyrus, oblivious to it all, grins widely and turns right around. “Let’s go grab the ground beef and be on our way!”

Cashing out the food goes smoothly, and you’re outside on the street corner in no time. Papyrus holds most of the bags; you’d tried to argue, but he lifted them with such ease that you’d been a little shocked. As is, he has consoled you with a single bag and the job of “bus-scouter.”

The bus stop is across the street, and the walk signal flashes. You look over and see a flashy red car tearing around the corner.

“C’mon, roommate! We’ll miss the bus!”

Papyrus hasn’t seen the car, you realize in a flash of panic. The red car flies ever closer and shows no sign of stopping, but Papyrus has already hefted up his bags and taken the first step into the street.

Blessedly, your brain does away with fearful thoughts and gets by on instinct. You drop your groceries and reach out, grasping him by the shoulders and yanking him back away from the road.

“2B, what’s-?”

The red car screams through the red light, and an ensuing mix of angry honks and squealing tires follows in its wake. Black tire tracks mark where Papyrus had been standing only moments ago.

The both of you stand there, a mix of astonishment and relief washing over you. You take a deep breath and exhale, forcing down a wash of unpleasant thoughts about what might have just happened.

“Th-thank you, housemate!” Papyrus looks a little frazzled himself, and he looks over at you with no small amount of gratitude. “You were so quick!”

“Y-yes, well...” You’re not sure what to say. What would your mother say? “Just, um... well, checking both ways is very important. In the city, for sure.”

“Ah, so you mean that some humans do not obey the walking lights? How very dangerous!” He gets over it quite quickly and nods sagely. Then he sees the broken bag of groceries on the ground and goes about stuffing the pasta and sauce into his other bags, completely unfazed by the extra weight. “Well, now we must wait for the next light. How very unfortunate!”

The next light coincides nicely with the arrival of the bus, and you hop on just in time (after checking both ways, of course). The back seats are empty this time and you grab them quickly, not only for the added quiet but also because there is plenty of room for Papyrus’s groceries. The two of you sit there as the bus starts to move.

“Did you see that car, though?” Papyrus pipes up and you look over to see him smiling dreamily. “I want a car like that someday! A bright red, shiny convertible. Like a Mustang!”

“I didn’t know you liked cars.” He didn’t really seem like a car guy, but then, you remember waking up in his sports-car bed. Perhaps there was a lot you didn’t know.

“Oh yes, very much!” He’s practically bouncing now with excitement. “Driving was never an option in the Underground, you know. There were a few emergency vehicles, but fuel was always an issue. And pollution! We relied a lot on waterways.”

It was funny, but you’d never thought much about the Underground either. It’s still heavily populated, so you’ve heard, with most of the monsters. Something about slow acclimation to the economy. But it was Sans and Papyrus’s original home, and also their prison, thanks to humans. It makes you feel rather guilty, to be honest. Who were humans to kick anybody out of their homes and trap them underground?

“I’m sorry, that... well, you never got to drive.” You scratch your neck and look away, feeling sheepish. “I could, um, teach you. If you want.”

You would normally immediately regret offering to spend exorbitant amounts of time with anybody, but the bright joy on Papyrus’s face makes you feel better about it.

“Wowee, really?” He clasps his hands and you think his pupils might be shaped like stars right now. “No other monster I know knows how to drive, so I was going to go to a school! But learning with my housemate 2B will be even better!”

“Just, you know. It might be a while.” Your face is flushing a bright red right now. Helping people is... surprisingly nice, as far as feelings go. “I won’t get my car back from my mom for another year.”

“Oh, well that’s no problem; there’s plenty of time.” Papyrus nods firmly. “What sort of cars do you like, 2B?”

“Me? Ah, well...” You pause and think. You’ve never really thought about it before. “I guess... station wagons. White with wooden trim.”

You can tell that Papyrus is fighting not to make a face. “That’s, ehm... a very reliable choice?”

You snort a little. “That’s why I like them. Slow and safe and steady, that’s what I prefer.”

Papyrus gives you an odd look for a moment, and the good mood you’d been nursing devolves into anxiety. “Uh, what’s wrong? Is that a bad reason to like a car?”

Papyrus waves his hands frantically. “Oh, no, not at all! It just, um,” He looks away taps his lower mandible thoughtfully, “made me think of something else.”

He doesn’t offer anything more than that, and you’re honestly a little curious, but he yanks on the bus stop line and grabs up the bags. You can see through the bus stop windows that you’re in a nicer part of town, with big townhouses and immaculate lawns. The bus rolls to a stop outside a bus shelter and the two of you step off. The largest house of them all is just across the street, with big shrubberies on the lawn, and a big set of red double-doors set right in the front of the building. It’s quite huge, and expensive-looking, and more than a little intimidating.

“Here we are!” Papyrus confirms your fears, and after dutifully checking both ways, crosses the street. “Come on, 2B!”

You smile weakly and trot along behind him. This is going to be an interesting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait guys! Hope you enjoy this one; please keep the feedback coming! I appreciate each and every comment.


	10. Storms and Moons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is nice enough but parties aren't your thing.

The house is, thankfully, less intimidating on the inside than the outside.

The front foyer is a soothing shade of yellow, and the walls are covered in small photo frames depicting the white goat-woman you’d seen once and an unfamiliar human child. In unnerves you a little that Papyrus bounded inside so easily without even knocking, but then it _was_ a party. Your mother had hosted enough of them in your youth that the concept isn’t new to you. Still, it feels strange to just walk inside somebody else’s home; you compensate by anxiously taking off your shoes and placing them neatly on the guest mat.

“TORIEL! FRISK! SANS!” Papyrus bellows throughout the house, and even though you said it was ok, the volume still makes you wince a little. You grow accustomed to it, however, as Papyrus proceeds to continue, “WE HAVE BROUGHT THE SUPPLIES!”

“Do bring them in, Papyrus!” A motherly voice with an almost musical lilt answers him, and from the kitchen area the goat-woman emerges. She wears a blouse and long skirt of differing shades of purple, and smiles as she approaches. She is also quite tall, you realize; probably a good eight feet, and you’re amazed you hadn’t noticed it when you last saw her. The embarrassment did have a way of clouding your judgement.

Her smile is warm, but falters when she sees you. You panic, checking yourself down for anything offensive... then realize she probably recognizes you too. And knows your reputation among monsters, regardless of what Sans or Papyrus has said.

Awesome.

“U-um,” You try, struggling. “Nice to meet you? Properly, I mean. My name is Avery, but, uh, Sans and Papyrus call me 2B. You can, if you want. I don’t mind.” Your voice trembles and your words are rambling, but it’s mostly coherent. Better than other attempts you’ve made.

She blinks with what looks like surprise, and then her gaze softens. “Oh, of course, Papyrus has explained things to me. My name is Toriel; please come sit in the kitchen.” She motions for the two of you to follow and you shoot Papyrus a questioning look. He grins.

“Oh, it’s ok, roommate!” He hisses in a semblance of a whisper. “I told everybody about your social needs, since Undyne didn’t know earlier. It’ll make things easier!”

He hefts up the bags and hurries into the kitchen, with you stumbling behind with a dazed expression. He’d _told_ them? _Everybody_? Everyone in this house knows that you’re, medically speaking, mentally _ill?_

If having to introduce yourself was stressful, this is medieval torture. Telling Papyrus and Sans had been a huge gesture on your part, one with much coaxing from your therapist. For god’s sake, even your mother, for all her flaws, never blabbed this part of your life to anyone; no matter how obvious. But Papyrus, sweet as he is, probably doesn’t even realize the breadth of what he’s done. He’s task-focused, you’ve come to realize; give him a problem and he’ll solve it. Just don’t ask him to predict anything coming from his actions.

Your chest already has the familiar cold squeeze to it, but you force a smile and sit at the kitchen island. The stovetop and counters are spotless, as if they’ve never been used, but Toriel pulls out well-worn pots and pans. A new house, you think, otherwise how would everything be so clean?

“Sans, Frisk, Undyne and Alphys are in the living room.” Toriel motions to a pair of glass double-doors on the left, where you can see movement. “2B, dear, you can stay here for now, if you’d like. Get used to things.”

You’re caught between gratitude and indignation. You don’t need special accommodations, even if you sometimes want them; all you really need is people to ignore your shortcomings. Maybe it’s a lot to ask, you admonish yourself; who knows if monsters are at all familiar with your issues? Maybe this is just how she knows best to help.

“Thanks, I’ll, uh, just take a second then.” You reply, watching as Papyrus sets about emptying the bags onto the counters. “You have a very nice house.”

“Oh, well, thank you dear.” Toriel smiles and fills one of the pots with water. “It’s just been me and Frisk in this big house, and we have so little to fill it with. It’s nice to have so many people over.”

“Frisk?”

You can hear loud voices muffled by the double doors now, and see a small ottoman fly across the living room, followed by a streak of blue. Undyne, you realize, and gulp.

“Oh, yes, my adopted child.” Toriel snaps her fingers, and you jump when the stovetop lights with fire. “They’re with the others. They’re very good friends with everyone, and they’re the official human ambassador for monsters, you know.”

“OH INDEED!” Papyrus pipes in, holding two bags of spaghetti. “FRISK IS AN EXCELLENT SPOKESPERSON.”

Come to think of it, you’ve heard that name once or twice in passing. Probably on the news.

“Is he, um, on the news a lot? With King Asgore and Mettaton?”

“They, dear. And yes, they sometimes appear with the King.” Toriel scrunches her nose when she says King, which surprises you because you’d thought he was pretty popular. He seemed like a big teddy bear on any news channel you’d seen. But her expression quickly returns to calm and she turns around, towards the refrigerator. “Here, let me get you some iced tea.”

“Oh, um,” You flounder. You hate people waiting on you as a guest. “There’s no-”

But a moment later Toriel hands you a big glass of iced tea, with a large ice cube right in the middle. Only, on further inspection, it’s not a cube at all.

It’s a T. An ice cube in the shape of a T.

You blink at it for a good long second, and look up at Toriel. Papyrus is at her shoulder with a look of pain on his face, while hers is expectant.

“Oh, I get it.” You point to it. “Iced T.”

Papyrus shrieks in dismay while Toriel breaks into giggles, and you sit there in quiet contemplation of your life choices. You mean, it’s a funny joke, but the reactions are a bit over the top, aren’t they? And you thought jokes were Sans’ thing.

Still, you giggle out of politeness, smile and take a sip. It’s a pre-made mix, but still pretty good.

“MY QUEEN! WHY?!” Papyrus wails and gestures wildly to you. “YOU AND SANS ARE GOING TO CORRUPT MY POOR ROOMMATE!”

“I find laughter helps to break tensions.” Toriel nods firmly, but there’s one thing you just heard that you can’t let go.

“You’re... the Queen?” You ask, nervously. You hadn’t heard of a Queen being mentioned anywhere, but if she was, then your social graces could be at even more of a disadvantage. How did one even speak to a Queen? Should you have curtsied? Already this is getting stressful, and you’ve only met one new person today.

“Technically ex-Queen.” Toriel replies, and that shuts you up. It explains the reaction to the King, for sure. She changes the subject quickly, which at first you’re grateful for and then you’re not. “But, dear, you must tell me; is there anything you need? When Papyrus explained things to me I didn’t quite understand how I can make things easier. I know there are a lot of people here, and you’ve had some... little mishaps, so I just want to help if I can.”

She’s so sincere and kind that you feel very guilty for how your bones seize up and your lungs constrict. You’d hoped that maybe she wouldn’t bring it up again, but now it was obvious that monsters didn’t have the same... cultural understanding of human mental illness. As is, your mouth is dry and it makes it difficult to reply.

“I-I... well, um.” You toy with the glass of iced tea. What to say? “It’s not something that can, well, be fixed. Or rather, it can, but with doctors and stuff. Who I’m seeing.”

“So it’s a medical issue?” Toriel cocks her head. “Some monsters are shy by nature, of course, but kindness is often the cure. Is this like how Frisk is allergic to shellfish?”

You almost bark out a laugh out of pure astonishment. She certainly cut to the point.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You say, and wonder if you could pull off a shrug. You decide not to try. “I’m allergic to people.”

When you look up, Toriel and Papyrus are giving you concerned faces, and you realize that may have come out more rueful than you meant to. Not that you’ve ever really pulled off nonchalance, but you quickly put a smile on your face.

“Oh, but, um, like I said. I’m getting help, so don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“yo.”

The three of you look over to the living room, where one of the doors has been opened and Sans stands in the doorway. He’s leaning against the doorframe, and you can’t remember hearing the door open. Maybe you’re so keyed up that your mind is playing tricks on you. Regardless, his gaze is fastened directly on you, and it causes a shiver to run up your spine. “you wanna come meet the gang?”

His tone isn’t accusatory, but feels a little like it anyways. Perhaps you have been rude not to have introduced yourself immediately, you think, and shrink a bit.

“Sans.” Toriel says, a tad warningly, but you shake your head.

“No, no, I’d love to meet everyone.” You reply, and stand up from the stool. At this point it’s a choice between a rock and a hard place; meeting more people, or staying and facing more of Toriel and Papyrus’s well-meaning but misplaced concern. Both are terribly sweet, but it’s not what you need. Sans, though he is a bit of an ass, doesn’t seem terribly concerned with your disorder. Which is both a good and a bad thing, you suppose, since he’s been dragging you into one situation after another.

You make your way to the living room, which is in another shade of yellow- Toriel must really like the colour- and see several people seated on the couches surrounding the television. A soccer game is on, and Undyne, at the end of the couch, is shouting at the screen with her fists clenched. Beside her is the lizard-woman you’d also seen before, the one with golden scales and glasses, and dressed now in shorts and a graphic T-shirt of an anime you don’t recognize. On the floor there is a human child, Frisk you decide, in a blue-and-purple sweater. They seem content to watch Undyne screech orders at the unhearing athletes and Alphys nod along.

When you slip into the doorway beside Sans, however, they immediately all stop what they were doing and look at you. The instant silence is deafening, and it is all you can muster to wave weakly and not hide behind Sans.

“Well, if it isn’t the weird human!” Undyne grins toothily. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re broken? I wouldn’t have been so hard on ya!”

The ice in your chest now spreads directly to your face.

“Pardon?” You squeak tinnily.

“Y’know, broken! Ya can’t do people stuff!” Undyne slaps her thigh and the lizard-woman, who seems just as horrified as you do, tries to nudge her arm. “I mean, monsters can fix that stuff easy, like Alphys here. But I’ve never heard of anybody who, like, _chokes_ on their own lungs if they have to talk to somebody.”

You have to admit, Undyne deserves credit for describing social anxiety in the most descriptive and cutthroat way you’ve ever heard. You’ve never been referred to as broken before (though you’ve thought about it yourself often enough), and it’s not a pleasant feeling. Rather, you think you might demonstrate “choking on your own lungs” if this keeps up.

“I-I think what Undyne is trying to say,” Alphys says, and her stumbling tone of voice is actually somewhat similar to your own, “Is that we misinterpreted what was going on, and we’re sorry. And that we’d like to get to know you.”

“yeah.” Sans steps forward into the room and gives you a widening grin. It makes you very uneasy. “let’s just chat.”

You could almost smack him, but your meagre social graces stay your hand, as well as the knowledge that Frisk is still sitting on the floor, watching everything. They look to be about eleven, and purposely gender-ambiguous, which you’ll have to make sure you respect. You don’t exactly want to show a kid how weak-minded you are today, even if Sans is being decidedly cruel. He _knows_ how you struggle to speak to people; hell, they all know, thanks to Papyrus. What exactly do they hope to accomplish?

Still, you can’t exactly refuse.

“Sure.” Your mouth moves into the shape of a practised smile and you gingerly sit on the end of the couch. “We can talk.”

“Great!” Undyne leans forward and stares full-on at you. “What do you do?”

“Uh?” You scream inwardly; this is not starting well. Sans, to your chagrin, takes his seat on the couch next to you. His bony knee is decidedly close to yours, but you can’t move away without slipping off the couch, so you grit your teeth and bear the discomfort. For his part he seems oddly satisfied. “W-what do you mean?”

“Like, you know! DO! Every day!” Undyne gestures with one hand, moving it in a circle. Somehow even seated on the opposite couch she manages to loom over you and fill the room with her presence, and every slight movement is magnified in your mind. Alphys, by contrast, is an anchoring presence, and you don’t think you would mind hanging out with her a little. “I’m a bodyguard, Sans does his school thing, Alphys is a scientist.”

“Oh, I guess I’m a student, then.” You reply, fidgeting. Being the centre of attention is supremely uncomfortable, and you can feel your head getting lighter. Your anxiety is at what Killian would call a “level 6”. “I study literature at the university.”

Undyne frowns a little, looking unsatisfied, but Alphys pipes in. “Really? You study books?”

“Well, yes... mostly historical though.” You reply, and Alphys starts to bounce in her seat.

“Oh oh! You must tell me your take on the new Mew Mew: Kissy Cutie novels!” She has suddenly gained a huge amount of energy all at once, and Undyne is smiling at her dreamily. It occurs to you that they are probably a couple. “I’ll lend you the set! I’d love to have someone to talk to about it!”

“O-oh, um... sure?” You say. Books, you know how to talk about a little, at least. “How many are there?”

“Twelve!” She squeaks happily and squeezes Undyne’s knee. Definitely a couple. “With five more planned!”

“Oh wow.” Dammit. “That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“So then!” Undyne turns her attention back to you, her yellow eye fixing on you with the intensity of a hungry shark. “You’re a student. What else ya into?”

There’s a tremble in your fingers so you squeeze your hands against the material of your jeans. “Oh, um, normal stuff, I guess. I read a lot of books. There’s a few video games I like. That sort of thing.”

Undyne makes a face, and her sharp canines make yet another appearance. You can feel yourself getting a tiny bit fainter. “C’mon, you don’t sound excited about it at all! Aren’t you passionate about anything?”

She has no tact, you’ve come to realize. It’s only making things worse.

“she likes to bake, sometimes.” Sans says, cutting in. You look over and he’s made himself very comfortable, watching over the proceedings with the air of an aloof cat. “she made a cake for us.”

You don’t know what Sans’s deal is. Sometimes he’s considerate and other times he’s completely oblivious to your struggles. You’re beginning to suspect he has an agenda to all of this, but what that is you can’t guess.

“Well, that’s something, I guess.” Undyne props her head up in her hand and looks over to Alphys. “Didn’t your favourite character have, like, a baking episode?”

“A cafe episode, but yeah.” Alphys corrects her gently with a smile, then to you, “Not every anime has a cafe episode, you know. It’s sort of like a beach episode but with more frilly skirts.”

“Seems to me like they’d be trouble in a kitchen.” Undyne’s wide mouth scowls. “I mean, they’d light up like kindling.”

“It’s _dramatic.”_ Alphys insists. “Like giant swords. Humans love giant swords for their scariness, not their effectiveness.”

“Well, we got a human here, let’s ask her.” Undyne turns again to you, and you can feel every hair on your neck stand on end. She’s endlessly intimidating and it is doing nothing for your nerves.

“U-um, well...” You flounder and look over to Sans for any measure of support, but he just smiles back as uselessly as always. You try again, swallowing thickly. “I, uh, wouldn’t know. Swords aren’t exactly needed anymore, what with violence being frowned on...?”

“Violence and fighting are two different things!” Undyne announces with a booming tone, and you nearly have a heart attack. “Violence is cruel; fighting is a confrontation of souls! Like a dance of the heart!”

She proceeds to burst into a long-winded tirade about the virtues of battle strategy in real life. Alphys nods along with her, clearly into it, while you struggle not to crawl under a rock. Everything is just... too loud, too much, all at once. You’re tired and achy, and yet feel the buzzing of anxiety under your skin like a swarm of bees. You don’t know how to respond to any of this; them knowing about your disorder, being considered a ‘broken human’... and you know that you’re stuck here for several hours at least.

The worst part is, everyone seems to be perfectly kind and nice. A little tactless in the human department, maybe, but otherwise completely normal. It’s just... _you._ You and your stupid brain who can’t handle it all. The thought of it makes you sick.

You’re just a broken little human.

Your throat is starting to constrict and your vision is going black when, abruptly, a small hand reaches into your own.

Startled, you look down and see Frisk, who has been silent this entire time. They tug on your hand, and dazed, you can’t help but stand and follow. Neither Undyne nor Alphys seem to notice; they’ve gotten into a heated discussion about battle wands or some such. But Frisk pulls you out of the living room and down a hallway, firm and insistent. You, trying to push back tears, are having trouble getting out the words to protest.

“U-um, hey-”

They ignore you, pulling you into a little room just a bit aways from the kitchen. It’s a child’s room, and unlike the others, is a bright shade of orange. It’s decorated in a mix of colourful objects, like a tapestry on one wall and drawings on the one next to the desk. You assume it is Frisk’s, as the drawings all look recent and depict Frisk with various monsters and people.

As you enter you notice the bed is twin-size and has a similar quilt to the one that Papyrus had lent you. It too looks handmade, and you think you can safely assume that Toriel made both of them. There is a box of toys in the corner, full of small bears and other stuffed toys that look barely used at all. The desk, however, is worn and covered with pencil shavings and smudge marks. You can guess where Frisk’s passions lie.

Frisk lets go of your hand once you are both inside and points to the floor. You take that as a suggestion to sit, and you do; at this point, you’re not completely fit to be making many decisions anyway. Frisk, once they’re satisfied that you are comfortable, moves to the closet in the corner and starts to rummage through it.

The change of environment is helping, somewhat; you can control the flux of tears that are threatening to fall, but the shaking refuses to stop. That is, until Frisk suddenly drags a huge teddy bear- a good three-quarters of their height- out of the closet. It’s an impressive, terribly fluffy thing, and looks expensive. They heft it over and plop it into your lap.

“O-oh, wow, um,” You touch it, and it’s as soft as it looks. “I-I don’t want to, um, I mean... it’s yours, isn’t it? You don’t need to share your toys.”

Frisk shakes their head and waves their hand dismissively. Then, in a soft voice, “I don’t use it. Hug it and feel better.”

It’s the first time you’ve heard them speak, and it’s a soothing childish voice that seems to have picked up a bit of Toriel’s musical tone. Still, you obey and give the bear a squeeze. It’s not a cure-all, but it does ease some of the tension under your skin.

“Thank you.” You press your forehead into the teddy’s face. The glass eyes feel cool against your skin. “I’m sorry if I worried you, I shouldn’t have.”

“Not worried. Just wanted to help.” Frisk shrugs and moves over to their desk, wear there are pencil crayons and paper. They grab several of them and sit down, spreading them out on the floor. They then begin to draw, and you watch over the teddy bear’s shoulder with curiosity.

They spend a good five minutes quickly sketching, pausing to grab different colours once in a while. Then Frisk lifts the finished picture with a flourish, and you’re startled to see it depicting you between Undyne, Papyrus and Sans. Over each head is a symbol; Undyne appears to be a green flame, Papyrus has a sun, and Sans has a moon framed by clouds. You, by contrast, have a dark raincloud with lightning sticking out in random places.

“This is how I see people, sometimes.” Frisk explains, and points to Undyne. “Undyne is warm but can burn you if you’re not careful. Papyrus is very bright, but he can tire you out. You have a raincloud that likes to make storms sometimes.”

You choke back a laugh and gently take the picture from Frisk’s outstretched hand. “That so?”

“Uh huh. I can tell. But rainclouds can make rainbows too, you know.” Frisk nods firmly.

It’s such a sweet, innocent metaphor that you can’t help but smile as you study the drawing. But then you remember something. “Um, but what about Sans?”

“Sans has a lot of faces.” Frisk sits back on their haunches with a thoughtful expression. “And he has his own clouds.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, so you hand back the drawing and gently set down the bear. You are feeling good enough to get yourself under control, at least a little. “Thanks for, um, clarifying.” You look around, hoping to change the subject, and your gaze settles on the bookshelf in the corner. It’s filled with textbooks- some on geology, some on history. One appears to be labelled “A Basic Knowledge of Magic”, which unlike the others doesn’t have a Board of Education seal. “Are all of those yours?”

“Oh, yeah.” Frisk looks over at where you’re staring and nods. “I missed a lot of school.”

“Does, um, Toriel teach you?”

“Yeah, mom’s great for that.” Frisk nods affirmatively. “I study at home when Mom’s not, well, doing political stuff.”

You can only imagine. If the common monsters were struggling to be accepted in human society, and Toriel still had queenly duties to do, then she must be a busy woman indeed. Still you can’t help but focus on the huge size of the textbooks. They don’t look to be Frisk’s grade level- if anything, they look like something you could buy at your own campus.

“Those are complicated materials; you must be pretty clever.” You say, slowly as to not bungle up the words. Then you smile, and this time it’s genuine. “Your mom must be very proud.”

Frisk sheepishly scratches their neck

“Thanks, but there’s one thing I don’t know.” Frisk replies.

“Oh?”

“Did it hurt?”

Confusion sets in. “I’m sorry?”

“Did it hurt, you know, when you fell from heaven?”

The absurdity of the cheesy pick-up line coming from the small child would have been enough, but then Frisk does this over-the-top eyebrow waggle and all the tension in your body escapes through a chortle, and then a full-on laugh. It’s hilarious, and you try to hold back yours snickers, but then Frisk continues,

“Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got ‘fine’ written all over you.”

Frisk grins as you buckle over, crumpled in laughter. You can’t remember the last time you laughed like this- years, maybe- but it does the trick. All your anxiety bleeds out like steam.

“O-oh, my god, you shouldn’t say stuff like that!” You wheeze, but the sincerity is lost with your mouth in such a wide smile.

“yeah, kiddo. i’m supposed to be makin’ her laugh.”

When you turn your head, Sans is leaning against the open doorway, eye sockets crinkled into a wider smile than usual.

“you tellin’ me my jokes fly over your head, but these do the trick?” He says with mock indignation and shakes his head. “harsh, 2b.”

Instinctively you open your mouth to protest, but then Frisk does their brow-waggle again and you burst into giggles.

“i guess,” Sans says, as soon as you begin to heave breath back into your lungs, “kid, you’ve beat me to the _punchline._ ”

Of course he’s not going to give you a break; you’re relaxed and giggly enough that you let out an ungainly set of chortles that you desperately try to smother. Your eyes are even watering from the strain.

“S-stop!” You beg, between wheezes, and look up to try and give Sans a warning glance... and immediately falter.

His mouth is in the widest, most pleased smile you’ve ever seen on him, and he looks just... well, happy. His shoulders are slack and his pupils are glowing brightly. Somehow you’ve never realized before, but in contrast, he always has this weariness to his movements and expressions. Rather like a slowly dimming flashlight, struggling to keep going. Now, though, he seems bright and relaxed. It reminds you of what Frisk said, about Sans being like the moon, and now you can’t help but agree.

Is it because you’re laughing at one of his jokes? If so, you can’t help but think that a few giggles are a small price to pay to see this face again.

“You’ve been off your game.” Frisk folds their arms and sticks out their tongue. “Clearly she likes cheesy pick-up lines.”

“Frisk!” You motion for him to stop, but it’s too late. Sans’s smile has already turned predatory.

“s’that so? well, i’ll remember this for later.” Sans replies evenly, but then his expression turns serious. “but, uh, we gotta go. Tori got a call from the lawyers and she’s gotta meet with them real quick.”

“Lawyers?” You look at Frisk and their expression has turned sad. Neither offers clarification and you opt not to pry. “Well, um, ok. Nice to meet you, Frisk.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Frisk smiles again and reaches out; you shake their hand.

“we’ll be around again, no worries.” Sans offers his own hand and, hesitantly, you take it; he helps you up with that surprising strength you’re starting to associate with him.

You follow him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where Toriel is on the phone with a hurried, concerned expression. When she sees the two of you she mouths an apology, and you both shake your heads and mime that it’s alright.

Papyrus is already out the door- proactive as usual- but with a teary-eyed, mournful expression. He’s clearly disappointed.

“OH SANS! 2B! THIS IS TERRIBLE!” He sniffles loudly. “I HATE TO SEE THEM STRUGGLE LIKE THIS- AND I CAN’T EVEN MAKE THEM SPAGHETTI TO CHEER THEM UP!”

“it’ll be alright, pap.” Sans pats Papyrus’s shoulder while closing the front door behind the two of you. “they can’t take away frisk.”

“Frisk?” You ask, and the two of them turn to you. “Is there, um, a lawsuit?”

“yeah.” Sans replies, his expression unreadable. “some folks want to make it illegal for monsters to adopt humans. they especially want frisk taken and put into foster care.”

You frown. That seems decidedly ass-backwards and not in Frisk’s best interests, just from what you’ve seen. But then, there are some people who are stuck in their ways and like to take it out on everyone else. “That’s awful.”

“yeah, it is.” Sans and Papyrus nod, and the three of you walk up towards the bus stop at the end of the street. Halfway there Papyrus shoots the two of you a look and suddenly announces, for no discernible reason,

“I am going ahead! Take all the time you like, for neither of you are as fast as me!” And with that, he takes off; running down the street towards the bus shelter.

You blink. “Um?”

“yeah, i dunno.” Sans shrugs, and you resist the urge to slap your forehead. Is he ever not calm? “let’s walk slow and make him wait.”

Considering Sans moves at a snail’s pace you don’t think it was ever not the plan. Still you keep your steps timed with his in a sort of silent harmony, even as Papyrus is already sitting on the bus shelter’s bench.

As you walk, something occurs to you.

“Um,” you say, “I could ask my sister about this.”

Sans quirks a brow at you questioningly.

“She’s a lawyer, working for a human rights firm.” You explain. “I bet she knows some people who could help Toriel.”

“you’d do that?” Sans asks, and he sounds genuinely surprised.

“Well, sure. I don’t want Toriel and Frisk to be separated. I just met them, but they seem happy.” You reply firmly. “It won’t hurt to ask.”

“s’pose not.” Sans says, looking on ahead. “you made a good impression, y’know.”

“No, I didn’t.” You reply. “But thanks for lying.”

Sans says nothing to that; whether he agrees or disagrees, you don’t know. The two of you walk in peaceful silence, even as Papyrus flags the bus down with excited arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to give 2B a name for the purposes of plot, but if you guys don't like it, I promise it won't be used often; just by family and whatnot. 2B is still first and foremost, 2B.
> 
> And again, your responses mean the world to me.


	11. An Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2B talks to her sister and has that next trip to Grillby's.
> 
> PS: The last chapter was updated and edited, so to understand future updates please re-read chapter 10.

You pace from the foot of your bed to the door and back again. You’ve exhausted your opportunities for procrastination; your essays are finished and your room spotless for the last hour. You could make the excuse that you need groceries, or other errand, but it’s vastly approaching the time Sans has insisted that you be ready for... well, whatever you’d call the second trip to Grillby’s.

As is, your cell phone stares at you expectantly from your desk.

You swallow and steel yourself, finally picking up the damn thing and dialling your sister’s number. It rings twice, and you’re about to stop the call when you hear the click.

“What a surprise!” Kathy immediately sing-songs, and you can practically hear the sunshine in her voice. “How’ve you been, big sis?”

“Good! Good,” You respond automatically, toying with the fabric of your sweater. There’s an urge to tear at the soft fibers that you ignore. “Just wanted to call and um, see how you were.”

“I’ve been great! Work has been sooooo busy, you wouldn’t even believe.” She sighs dramatically, and you think that you definitely can believe that, considering Kathy works as a paralegal at a pretty prestigious law firm. From what you understand, it involves helping the experienced lawyers with preparing their cases. Kathy is also taking courses to complete her own lawyer’s education, which is a workload you don’t think you could handle.

“There’s this huge case coming up,” she continues, and you can tell she’s gearing up. “It’s really big- like, career-making- and I’m working really hard because I heard that they’re going to put two paralegals on the case alongside the major partners. If I’m lucky, I’ll be one of them!”

“You don’t need luck, you know that.” You reply, and it’s true; Kathy is clearly talented as a future lawyer. More than that, Kathy has always been... well, pretty much the opposite of you. Socially popular and endlessly friendly, she never lacks for friends and thrives on the attention of others. Where you struggled, she soared. But despite this, though your therapists have sometimes tried to convince you otherwise, she’s always been a firm rock in your life. She’s among the few people who actually understands your disorder... like how phone calls can be a bit nerve-wracking.

“Oh, but Mary at work is great too. And Trevor, Trevor is almost certainly going to be picked; he’s got seniority. He closed this contract a month ago that got him a raise.”  
You can tell that she’s getting ready to start talking legalese, and that can get overwhelming; the unknown language and Kathy’s infectious energy do numbers on your anxiety. Best to redirect the conversation.

“I’m glad you’re doing well.” You reply honestly. “How’s mom?”

“Oh well, you know. Now that the wedding has been moved up, she’s freaking out about every little thing. I can’t believe the event hall double-booked the place!”

Your throat constricts. “What?”

A pause. “Wait, you didn’t hear? The wedding is in, like, three weeks now. We could have just waited another few months, but you know how mom is.”

“No, I didn’t hear.” It’s a struggle, but you maintain your composure. You were most certainly not ready for a wedding; you didn’t have a dress, or a hair appointment set up, or any of those necessary girly things that your mother made you promise to have done. But, more than that, you’re a little hurt that you’re hearing about this second-hand. Why hadn’t your mother told you? It’s not like her to miss a chance for drama.

“Hey, now, don’t worry.” Kathy says, probably predicting your distress. “I’ll send you the date and times over text. I guess you don’t, uh, have a date?”

You resist the urge to smack your forehead. “No. Do I need one?”

“Define ‘need’. Mom’s got it into her head that if you don’t have one, she’s gonna set you up. Maybe not a date, per se, but definitely a person that she’ll make follow you around all night.”

The thought alone makes you pale. Weddings, with their loud music and busy, happy people flitting about a dance floor already make you want to crawl under a rock. There are photos, and dresses, and having to smile at every single person you meet. To have some strange person charged with forcing you to be friendly? You don’t know if you’d survive.

“If I were you, I’d, like, pay somebody to be your date.” Kathy offers, and you can almost hear the realization of how her words might be taken. She immediately backtracks: “Not that you need money to get a date, but, you know, it might be tricky this close to the wedding.”

“I’ll think of something.” You assure her, though you’re not sure yourself.

“Mom told me your new roommates are, like, skeleton monsters. How’s that going?”

A welcome change of topic, at least until you can process how you’re going to manage this. “They’re nice. We, uh, had some misunderstandings, but we cleared it up. I actually gotta go in a minute, the older brother and I are going out to grab some food.”

“What, like, a date?” Kathy’s tone is sly, and your face heats up as you nearly drop the phone. When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the black reflection of your computer screen, your cheeks have flared pink.

“No!” You protest, perhaps a bit too soon, because Kathy giggles. “I mean it, Kat, it’s not like that.”

“Why not? You’re good looking. I mean, I don’t know what skeletons think is good looking, but he must have eyes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean, maybe not, that’d be creepy- he doesn’t have eyeballs, right?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Kat, don’t make me hang up.”

“Aw, I’m just teasing. It’d be nice for you to get out more; you’ve been seeing your doctors, right?”

You feel a little guilty that your little sister is the one worrying about you. It should be the other way around, but Kathy’s always been the well-adjusted one out of you two, and you can’t really wish any of your worries on her. You can feel good on her behalf that way. “Of course. I even went to a party the other day.”

“That’s great!” Kathy says with enthusiasm. “Listen, I gotta go; and I don’t wanna keep you from your not-date.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” You say. “Bye-” The phone clicks just as you finish, and you sigh. Much as you love your sister, she can be a handful. Where you like to walk, she... bounces along through life, sometimes completely oblivious to the effects on others. It’s never out of cruelty, but you think that maybe she’s so optimistic that sometimes she’s a tad... tactless. Since joining law school she has improved, to be fair.

As is, she’d run the conversation, and you never got to ask about Toriel and Frisk.

You suppose it’s just as well, after glancing at your phone’s clock. After last week, and finding out how most of the monsters knew you by unfortunate reputation, you’re incredibly nervous about going back to Grillby’s. Sure, Sans said he was taking care of it, but his motives still seem somewhat... iffy. Sometimes he seems completely considerate, and others he just pushes you into uncomfortable situations. This is one of the latter, it seems, though you can’t say it’s malicious. Acquaintances invite each other out to places, right? That’s how friends are made.

At this point you’re not exactly sure where on the spectrum of stranger-to-friends that you lie, but you know Sans well enough now that you don’t want to disappoint him.  
With that settled, you exhale shakily and throw your wallet and phone into your ratty old purse. It’s about time to leave.

After you’ve locked your door and traversed the stairs, you find yourself completely unsurprised to see Sans sitting at the kitchen table. He is facing the stairs as you descend, so you get the full effect of his Cheshire smile. It’s almost enough to make you falter, but you compose yourself and make it to the linoleum floor, wherein he hops off his chair.

“i’m glad you remembered.” he says, and his mouth widens and his eyesockets crinkle. He seems... genuinely pleased, but you’re still wary. You nod silently and squeeze the strap of your purse.

“Yeah, I uh... made a note of it.”

“great. after yesterday, i figured you might be tuckered out.” he says, shrugging, and you flush.

“It was only an hour, really. Though it’s a shame we didn’t get to use those groceries.”

Sans waves one of his skeletal hands nonchalantly. “don’t worry, pap will use them up. next time you should get some cake supplies too, toriel loves to bake. you could make something together.”

Your mouth twitches into a weak smile. Baking was already somewhat of a struggle; you really didn’t need someone more experienced than you in the kitchen.

“Yeah, for sure.” You reply.

Sans looks towards the door for a moment, appearing to consider something. He blinks after a moment and turns to you, and you’re thinking you’re beginning to recognize his mischievous smile over his other ones.

“tell ya what.” He sidles up next to you, closer than you think you’ve ever been, and holds out his hand. “i know a shortcut.”

You’ve instinctively leaned away, but after a moment your shoulders ease and you look down at the hand he’s holding out expectantly. Isn’t that a bit... intimate? For walking around?

“I uh...do we need to...?” You gesture to his hand, and if anything his smile grows wider.

“trust me, it’s safer if we do. go ahead.” He flexes his phalanges leisurely, and you’re reminded of the vice-like grip he’d had at the food court. He could do some serious damage with them if he wanted, but you know that you’re being silly; he’s not going to hurt you. Still, you fight back the urge to shift away as you gingerly slip your hand into his. It’s as cool and unnaturally hard as ever.

“Now wha-”

For a solitary moment you can’t feel the ground, the air, or even gravity. You stomach lurches and your ears pop, and panic sets in like a freight train. Even light is missing.

Then everything jolts back into place.

Your knees buckle and you crumple, surprised by the return of the earth’s pull, and the only thing keeping you from going down hard is Sans’ hand holding yours tightly.  
When you blink and remember that seeing is a thing you can do, you’re no longer in the house. You’re outside, the afternoon light fading into pinks and reds, and the neon sign of Grillby’s blaring its bright message across your face.

“easy. first time’s a bit rough.” You hear Sans say, but it sounds as if he’s far away. All you can focus on is your body screaming back into high gear after the world suddenly disappeared.

“What... was that?” You croak; your mouth is very dry. Clasping onto Sans’ shoulder is the only thing that lets you back to your feet, and he’s surprisingly stable and unfazed.

“a shortcut. A magic one, to be technical.” Sans tugs you back into alignment, but in all honesty your whole body is a shaky mess. The blood has rushed from your extremities and there’s cold sweat beading on your forehead.

“Yo, y’ok?” Another voice chimes in, and it’s the bunny bouncer- Archie- sitting on a stool on the bar’s lawn.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” You reply, and promptly turn around and grab onto the nearest light post. It’s embarrassing, and you can feel the concerned stares, but it’s a small mercy that you haven’t eaten in a while and only dry heave.

“sorry, 2b.” Sans gently places his hand on your shoulder and squeezes while your throat un-constricts, and you’re surprised that your normal flinching reaction hasn’t reared its head. Perhaps it’s your body in shock. “shoulda warned ya. you gonna be alright?”

“Y-yeah, just, um,” You begin, wiping your forehead and straightening unsteadily. “Just, uh, give me a minute. Then you can maybe tell me how you did it?”

Sans chuckles and squeezes your shoulder again. “anything ya want. we can talk over food, if you think you can stomach it?” The last sentence is laced with concern.

“I think I can still do it.” You reply, though maybe you won’t eat the whole thing.

He leads you into Grillby’s by your shoulder as you try to hide your pale, sweat-streaked face from the curious monster onlookers. There’s Doggo in the corner playing cards with a couple of strangely armored monsters and various other interesting characters, and they all watch you with undisguised interest. You wonder if Undyne told everyone who you were... and your particular brand of quirks.

“here, you sit down. i’ll grab the food.” Sans leads you to a booth and you take a seat with a grateful nod.

He disappears into the crowd of monsters, leaving you to hastily wipe your forehead with a napkin. Whatever Sans did, you don’t think you want to go repeating it anytime soon. You decide it’s probably teleportation, after a moment of consideration; he is studying quantum physics, after all. You hadn’t thought that magic and science would be compatible in that way, but curiosity begs you to ask.

The bar looks busy, and you can see the soft glow of Grillby’s head moving back and forth beyond the row of monsters seated there. With Sans gone for a few minutes at least, you can look around the room and watch as monsters go about their business. Seated at the booth across from you are two... slimes, you think, that really just look like unpackaged green jello. It’s hard not to stare as they sip from soda cans with long bendy straws, the liquid disappearing into their gelatinous mass.

“here we go.” You jump as Sans suddenly reappears, two plates of burgers in hand. He sets them down on the table and reaches into his hoodie’s pocket for a ginger ale that he must have also ordered, handing it to you. “for your stomach; i heard this stuff is good for humans.”

That was... surprisingly thoughtful. You thank him quietly and he sits down across from you, pulling out a bottle of ketchup from the same pocket- how did he even fit so much in there?- and setting about drenching his burger in the stuff.

“So, um.” You begin. “How did you, uh...?”

“get us here?” He finishes for you. “it’s kinda complicated, but have you heard of wormholes?”

“Vaguely.” You reply.

“basically it’s punching a hole through time and space.” Sans gestures with his hands, holding them up and then smacking them together. “with enough gravitational vibration, you can cross entire planes of existence. pap and i both have the ability to manipulate gravity, and we can get creative with the results.”

You blink. He isn’t being wordy, but the whole thing is still confusing as all heck.

“So, it’s like... a black hole.” Your brows furrow in thought. “The gravity, I mean. You can just... change it?”

“yep.” He raises one of his hands again, and for a moment both of his sockets go dark. Then, one socket lights up in a flickering mixture of blue and yellow that you’ve never seen before. It’s so startling that it takes you a moment to realize that your plate and burger have started floating.

“Oh.” You squeak, looking back and forth from him and the levitating meal. He smiles wider and flicks his wrist; the plate moves from side to side in a wavy pattern. Out of curiosity you reach out and touch the plate with a fingertip, and it feels as solid and stable as if it were still on the table’s surface.

“pretty sans-sational, huh?” His smile widens and he lowers his hand; the plate gently descends and lands without so much as a clink on the wood.

“That’s really amazing, yeah.” You answer him and inquisitively turn the plate with one hand to make sure it is back to normal. “Papyrus can do this, too?”

“yeah, but he’s not very interested in it. i just use it to avoid moving around too much.” He shrugs and you can believe it; his laziness has been proven by his inability to clean or wear different clothes and his incessant napping. What you wouldn’t give to be that relaxed.

“It’s... really cool.” You state hesitantly, then consider it for a second and nod firmly. “Definitely, really cool. But I don’t want to teleport again... for a while, anyway.”

“fair enough.” He says with another long, drawn out shrug. At least you haven’t hurt his feelings- or not as far as you can tell. You both simultaneously turn to your meals; you slowly, he with two chomps that should make a mess but don’t. You stomach about half before you start to feel queasy, and you take advantage of the ginger ale.

“so.” He begins, after you’ve set aside the last half of your burger. “jokes.”

“Hmm?”

“i promised you jokes.” He replies and settles back in his seat, twining his fingers together into a bony mesh. “but it’s traditional to swap em’. know any?”

“Erm. Not particularly.” You reply honestly. “I guess I could... find some? On my phone?”

Sans shakes his head. “nah, sometimes you just gotta hear some to dish em’ out. i’ll start.” He cracks his metacarpals dramatically and rolls his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. Then he gestures widely with his hands. “What time is it when you have to go to the dentist?”

This one sounds particularly terrible already.

“I don’t know, what?” You play along, a smile teasing at your lips.

“Tooth-hurtie.”

You were right; it is terrible, and your face twists into pained amusement. You don’t laugh, however, because it isn’t really funny, just painful. And Sans notices.

“alrighty then, not your thing? on to the next. So, two fish are in a tank.”

He pauses, and you realize he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it. “Oh, um, go on.”

“one fish turns to the other and says, “how do you drive this thing?”

He waits again, and you’re tempted to laugh just to satisfy him, but before you can he raises his hands. “nope, not that either. you’re a tough crowd, 2b.”

“Sorry.” You flush and look down at your hands. “I know you’re trying, I just... I have a bad sense of humor, I guess?”

“hmm.” Sans taps his chin thoughtfully. “well, as a scientist, i can’t take your word for it. is there a lab nearby?”

“A lab?” You give him a confused look. “Why?”

“cuz’ i’m sensing chemistry between us.”

It takes a beat of silence for the pick-up line to register, but when it does... it works. All of a sudden you have to stifle your mouth with a hand to keep back an unflattering guffaw, and you almost miss Sans’ face-splitting grin of satisfaction.

“picky, picky, 2b.” Sans rests his chin in his hand while you regain your composure. “all my lovely puns fly over your head, but these corny lines hit your funny bone? i didn’t take you for a fan of cringe comedy.”

“you’re a comedy scientist now?” You reply indignantly, a bit braver now that some of the tension has left your body.

“heck yeah there’s a science to comedy. my speciality is wordplay, but cringe comedy makes you laugh out of embarrassment.” He looks decidedly smug, and you resist scowling at him. Alright, so maybe he does know his stuff. “don’t worry, i’ll adapt. after all...”

He leans in, and in a true feat of flexibility somehow waggles his brow bones.

“if you were words on a page, you’d be fine print.”

Instinctively you cover your mouth, but you can’t help a flurry of giggles from erupting. It’s true; it’s funny because it’s absurd and embarrassing, and you are keenly aware of the curious looks you’re getting. But Sans starts chuckling, probably in triumph, and you can’t really be annoyed at him for it.

“S-stop it.” You beg helplessly.

“not unless you tell me a joke.” Sans’ grin widens even more. Immediately you falter, because jokes aren’t something you really remember; at least, not the two-line ones that Sans seems fond of. You can remember slapstick routines and funny stories from comedy specials, but all you have in the regular joke department is grade-school clean puns. Then again, that seems to be what he likes.

“Ok, then. Um,” You wrack your brain for the first one that comes to mind. “What do you call a sleeping bull?”

“i dunno, what?”

“A bulldozer.”

At first you’re afraid that he’s going to be disappointed- and, really, you’re kind of expecting it- but his pupils light up and his mouth stretches wide enough that you can see the tips of his canines.

“ha!” Sans laughs, and with one hand gives a thumbs-up. “i like that one! gotta try it on pap some time.”

“Don’t jokes drive Papyrus crazy?”

“he likes to complain, but he always smiles anyway.” Sans taps his own mouth to punctuate his point, and you give a little scowl.

“You both are always smiling, that doesn’t count.”

“having a lack of lips does give that effect.” His shoulders lift and fall in a show of nonchalance; he likes to do that alot, you’re noticing. “you, though; i think i’ve seen you smile more in the last few minutes than in the past month.”

Your fingers grip the table and your first response to paste a blank smile on your face. You’d really hoped that the conversation wouldn’t turn to you or your issues again, not when you are actually having fun.

“What can I say?” You try to match his carefree tone, but it comes out rather shaky. “I guess I’m not... well, used to being around people. Very much. So I don’t have a lot of practice.”

“all i meant,” He’s surprisingly quick to catch on to your distress, but his suddenly intense gaze does nothing to assuage it. “is that i know it’s been a bit crazy with me n’ pap around, and that all this... going out stuff? ain’t really your thing. So i appreciate you trying, and i was hoping you are enjoying it, at least a little.”

“Oh.” Your fingers run along the edge of your soda can, and you focus your eyes on the dim reflected light on the metal top. If you look up, you’re afraid that you’ll lose your train of thought, because you’re not sure exactly how you feel about the last couple of weeks. It’s been taxing on your nerves and uncomfortable, sure, but even so...there’s been a sensation of accomplishment to it. That you’ve been trying, despite the outcomes.

“I guess...the part of me that wants to be social and friendly, is happy.” You finally say, after a long beat of contemplative silence. “And the scared part of me is afraid of screwing up. So it’s... a bit of a mixed bag? But...” This part is the hard one, because you know you need to say it but you’re afraid of fumbling the words, “I don’t... I don’t regret it. Meeting you, or Papyrus, or anybody. And that’s the important part... at least, I think so.”

Sans takes his own drawn-out moment of thought, and you squirm under his line of sight. Perhaps you weren’t clear enough, or what you said came out wrong? You really hope you haven’t offended him; if you have, you think you might just crawl under the nearest rock.

“i won’t deny,” Sans settles back into his seat, “that we started off on the wrong foot. but you should know, papyrus already thinks of you as his friend. hell, i wouldn’t bring you to my favourite place if i didn’t think the same.”

Your heart clenches. He... thinks of you as his friend?

Really?

“I...” Your voice trails off as you struggle to respond. What do you even say? It’s been so long since you had a friend that you don’t even know what it feels like anymore. But, you remember the sticky note that Papyrus had drawn for you, the one with him and Sans and you all holding hands, and how you’d carefully stashed it into your wallet out of longing. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? What the therapy was for?

You can’t screw this up. You can’t.

“... I want that. Very much.” You clench your hands until you can feel your own heartbeat. “I might be nervous, but I do want to be friends.”

“then it’s settled.” Sans grins, and holds out his hand. It takes a moment to realize what he wants, and then you slip yours into his again. He squeezes it firmly and you both shake.

“Friends?”

“friends.”

His bones leave pale pink lines in your hand from where you both squeezed, and it feels like you’ve passed a milestone of some sort. There’s fear, oh certainly, but also a giddiness and sense of triumph. Like you aren’t completely shackled to your anxiety, at least in this.

The whole thing leaves you bolder than you’ve been in a long time, and your mouth is working before your brain can fully recover.

“Do you want to go to a wedding?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait guys; got busy with school starting. The next chapter should come a bit faster this time.


	12. Math is Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I thank you all for your patience; things got kind of crazy, but it gave me plenty of time to plan out this story properly. If you haven't seen, I've posted the first chapter of the companion to this story, Brevity is the Soul of Wit. It will detail Sans' story that is going on behind the scenes, and will hopefully add some new context to 2B's dealings with him. 
> 
> Now, please enjoy this chapter!

For you, the sciences aren’t exactly... easy.

It’s not that you aren’t interested. Some of your favourite movies are documentaries about cool inventions, space travel and biology. It’s all very uplifting and you could listen to smart people with soothing voices for _hours._

However.

You squint at the online worksheet on your screen. It’s a jumble of words that you barely understand, detailing two tables of math questions that only look vaguely familiar from your high school days. There are letters, numbers and abbreviations; almost too many to count. The bottom of the page has a set of links for reference, but so far they’ve been links to _playlists_ of information.

Taking “Intro to Mathematics” wasn’t your first choice. Hell, it wasn’t even your second. But as luck would have it, you need a science credit to graduate, and this course is the only one that fits your schedule. And to be fair on yourself, it did have “Intro” in the title when you chose it.

The first month of classes were easy; mostly history of mathematicians and the people who figured out special rules and whatnot. You’re used to writing essays and memorizing facts from other classes, so you let yourself relax a little and take things in stride. When the professor assigned this worksheet you put it aside for other, more pressing matters. After all, he’d called it a “refresher” and an “evaluation of where everyone stood.” Hardly intimidating.

You want to kick past you in the face for your ignorance.

This being Sunday and the first time you opened the attachment, you could never be prepared for the wall of numbers assailing you now. It isn’t _completely_ foreign- you remember doing the order of operations in long problems like this, and solving for single lettered values, but there are... a lot of letters. So far you’ve completed three out of twenty-five, and they seem to be ordered in terms of difficulty.

You try to approach it like any other new subject; research and application. You’ve watched three of the videos already, but there’s a lot of language you aren’t sure of. So, you opened up a mathematical glossary for beginners. And then a page of numerical symbol guides. And then looked for an online scientific calculator. Two hours passed with a slew of tabs open, but little progress; and no way to check your work.

A soft cracking sound startles you from your glaring, and you realize that the pencil you’ve been chewing on has split in two. The wood and graphite falls apart in your hands and scatters across your notebook like a crime scene.

You groan in frustration and press your palms into your eyes. There’s no _time_ to re-teach yourself math in time for tomorrow morning.

“Housemate?”

You spread your fingers and blink outwards through the spaces at Papyrus, who is peering out of his room. With the nightmare in front of you, it was almost easy to forget that this was also your designated “downstairs time.” At the time it seemed like a good idea to bring your homework down to the kitchen; now you were afraid you might look a bit too haggard to be appropriately friendly.

“Yeah, Papyrus?” You deliberately pitch your voice higher and lower your hands.

“There’s, um...” He hesitates before tapping his cheekbone.

“Oh? What-” You wipe your face and come away with grey dust smeared on your fingers. You pale.

The graphite.

“A-ah, geez, oh dammit-!” You push yourself up from the table and turn the water tap in the sink on, dunking in your hands and looking left and right for a cloth. There’s a sponge that works, but you have to scrub, and it does not feel great on your face when you use it. It takes two minutes to get all of it off, and by that point some of your hair and your shirt is wet.

Alone, you’d be cursing up a storm, but Papyrus is here and it feels weird to do that when he’s around. Like you’re setting a bad example.

“Are you alright, 2B?” Papyrus is in the kitchen now when you turn around, and you probably look even more like a wreck now, all bedraggled and red-faced. You tug anxiously at the dish towel you used to dry your face and nod.

“Just, um, a bit... I’m doing homework.” You gesture to the table in front of you, with the smudged papers and wood fragments. Papyrus tuts and lifts the topmost paper, sweeping the dust and broken pencil onto it and promptly dumping it in the trash before you can protest.

“Messes aren’t conducive to the learning process.” He says by way of explanation, and it’s so odd in his cheerful tone that your mouth quirks.

“Where’d you hear that one? That doesn’t sound like you.” Nor does it sound like Sans, come to think of it.

He pauses, and you’re suddenly terrified that you’ve offended him. Stupid, stupid- should never have ventured.

“Oh, well... our father. I think. It’s been a while.” He taps his chin and seems to be genuinely trying to remember. After a moment he shakes his head and shrugs in an animated way. “Anyhoo, if you’re having trouble, the Great Papyrus can help you out!”

“I mean, um...” You wring your hands helplessly as he pulls out the chair next to you and leans down to see your screen. His permanent toothy grin falters after a moment, and his brow bones furrow.

“Hrm.” He says, and you panic.

“Ah, I know it’s... well, it’s been a while since high school!” You try to explain. “I learned all this before, I swear, it’s just that... well, I haven’t had math in a long time, and-”

“I have absolutely no idea how to do this.” Papyrus replies, turning to you and setting his bony hands on his hips.

You falter at that. Honestly, you thought you were just an idiot. “What, really?”

“Nope! Too many letters and numbers together- never could figure that stuff out.” He scratches his jawbone thoughtfully, before he lifts one hand and snaps his phalanges. “But I know somebody who can!”

Immediately he sweeps back around the table and into the hallway, before loudly rapping on one of the doors. “SANS! GET YOUR LAZYBONES OUT HERE!”

Your stomach sinks.

“U-um, Papyrus, there’s no need-” You start to approach him, but Sans’s door opens long before you reach the hallway. The short skeleton peeks his head out and up at his brother.

“s’up bro?” He croaks. He sounds like he was sleeping.

“We have need of your skills, brother!” Papyrus replies, and Sans leans forward far enough to see you standing in the kitchen with a thoroughly embarrassed look on your face.

“I-I, um... hi. Good mor-afternoon.” You catch yourself hastily. “If you were sleeping, you can go do that again, this isn’t importa-”

“Of course it is!” Papyrus huffs. “Sans, our poor housemate is having trouble in math, and you’re going to help her.”

Sans hasn’t taken his eyes off of you, and his amusement is palpable. For your part, you rub your neck and pretend to be distracted by something on the floor.

“math, huh?” He cocks his head and gives a long, drawn-out shrug. “s’pose i can give it a look.”

“Great!” Papyrus beams at you and you want to crawl under a rock.

Now, you want to be grateful. Really, you do. But after last night at Grillby’s... well. Though you and Sans had agreed to be friends, and you didn’t think that had changed, you _did_ straight-up ask him to go to a wedding as your plus-one. To which he had given a non-committal “well, i can check my schedule”, and left you floating in the proverbial wind.

With about five seconds worth of hindsight, you knew it was a dumb thing to say. He had been really generous with his friendship, and you probably came across as both inappropriate and desperate in response. You’d tried to laugh it off and rambled a bit how you hated weddings yourself and thought he might get a kick out of it. In the end you both went back to trading jokes, and when you got home last night you decided to wait at least three days for the cringiness to wear off.

Now, asking for his help again? He’s probably regretting his offer of friendship already.

The most you can do is sit at the table again and wait until he slumps into the one to your left, then carefully slide over the laptop.

“This stuff is probably really easy for you.” You blurt out, as he blinks blearily at the screen. Papyrus settles into the chair across from you and looks between you with an eager expression. “You’re probably used to much more complicated math equations, doing physics and all. It’s just been a while for me, so I mean, a tip or two is all I need.”

He doesn’t reply. He just blinks his eye sockets again, adjusting, before they narrow.

“There’s, um, videos. In the links. I’m sure everything I need is in there, I just need to focus more.” His silence is getting very unnerving, and you twist your hands in the hem of your t-shirt. His expression in inscrutable to your eyes, and he adjusts the laptop screen and starts scrolling through the page.

“...your professor is dr. whyte?” Sans turns to you at last, and he looks annoyed, and now you really do panic.

“A-ah, um, yes.” Your throat tightens.

“and your class is...” Sans turns back to the worksheet, where the class info is pasted in the left-hand corner. “... _intro_ to mathematics?”

You nod now, feeling colder than before.

“well.” His bony fingers tap at on the table and he sighs. “this is part of the homework from my class last week.”

Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn’t this. The strain drains from your body to be replaced with confusion, and even even Papyrus looks surprised.

“Wait, you mean... a physics class?”

“yep. he took out most of the advanced stuff, but it’s still a bit...” He turns the screen back around and points out some of the questions near the bottom. “these ones need a bit of explanation if you haven’t seen them before. plus you need to know how to use scientific calculators.”

“Oh.” Gone is the frustration at yourself, and in its place is annoyance. “But, why would he give us this? I mean, we’ve done essays up until now, and a few questions in class.”

“probably because he told me it was too _easy_ for his physics class.” Sans replied and propped up his skull in one hand. “he had me write up the homework that week, and apparently too many people got above sixty percent. he said even his intro class could do it.”

“So he just... changed it a little and gave it to us?” Now you’re scrolling through it again. The language does look a little...hastily written.

“he probably expects you guys to figure everything out from the videos and prove him right. but without a couple years of math already, it would take hours to do these by hand.” Sans steeples his fingers and shoots you a lazy grin. “hope you made time.”

You blanche and Papyrus scowls at his brother. “ _Sans!”_

“alright, alright.” Sans chuckles and pulls over a piece of clean paper and a pen. “i’ll walk you through it.”

You really should protest the loss of his time for your sake, but now there’s the real fear that you might fail this assignment. And he did _write_ it, so...

“Thanks. A lot.” You try not to mumble, and grab your own paper and pencil. “I’ll try to keep up.”

Papyrus, for his part, stands up from his chair and goes to the refrigerator.

“And I will make us snacks!” The taller skeleton proclaims, and Sans chuckles at him.

“what, are we making this a math party? multiplying our numbers and dividing the workload?” Sans quips, and Papyrus gives him a dirty look.

“The only math I will be doing, brother, is the addition of delicious delights! Nyeh heh heh!”

It takes a moment, but the joke sinks in and your mouth twists upwards.

“Runs in the family?” You ask the shorter skeleton, and his grin turns devious.

“more of an acquired taste. don’t worry, we’ll get you doing stand-up in no time.” He winked, and you smile again in embarrassment. Maybe your fears were unjustified; he doesn’t seem to have any regrets about hanging out, or at least none you can see. Then again, he’s always hard to read.

“guess we should start with what you _do_ know.” Sans says, and you slide over the work you’ve already done.

“I think I figured out these ones.” You explain as he thumbs the page. “I mean, I’m not sure. I can’t really check. But I know addition, subtraction, multiplication, long division, the order of operations...”

“and this is due...?”

“Oh, um. Tomorrow morning?” Your hand rubs at your neck. “It was the last on my list of homework to do, and I really wasn’t expecting... well, you know. This.”

He chuckles, looking more amused by the minute. “procrastination, huh? hah, well, a student after my own heart. if i had one.”

The first problem you completed turned out to be correct, oddly enough. Though according to Sans, as he crossed out some of your work and re-wrote the numbers, you were taking the long way to get there. He goes through the question almost too quickly to follow, but his equations are neat and simple to read; and, honestly, make more sense than the ones on the videos. Having a working example in front of you makes everything significantly easier, and you complete the second question a bit faster.

Papyrus, for his part, makes some popcorn in the microwave; but unlike his signature spaghetti, it is not exactly appetizing. He mixes up the salt with the pepper without noticing, and your first handful is a bit of a shock. Neither of the two seem to notice, though, so you swallow politely and make sure to aim for the bottom of the bowl.

Sans doesn’t come across as a good teacher at first glance, with his slouching walk and eclectic wardrobe, but now that you know him a little better... yeah, it makes sense. He’s lazy in almost everything, and so too is his approach to math. He gets to the right answer, he just uses shortcuts and logical approaches that speed things up. What took the tutorial videos an hour to explain, he just scribbles out the equation and points out what should go where. Much easier to remember.

“So this,” You tap the laptop screen, “Is just the earlier question in reverse. Am I reading that right?”

“look at you, you’re figuring it out.” Sans’s skull tilts and his pupils flash in what you can only assume is satisfaction.

“It’s... it’s easier, with someone who knows what they’re doing, I think.” You admit.

“Well, I’m glad that my brother is finally _doing_ something around here.” Papyrus interjects with a huff, putting down two glasses of instant lemonade on the table. “I swear, if it weren’t for food and school, he’d never leave his room!”

That’s... huh.

You look over again at Sans, while Papyrus takes his seat. Up until now you figured him to be a social sort- he’s a teacher, which requires a lot of talking, and everybody at Grillby’s seemed to like him. He’s not as loud as his brother, of course, but he still has _friends_.

Though, you yourself left your sanctuary so rarely that you probably wouldn’t notice if he cooped himself in too. It’s... not reassuring, exactly, but it does force you to consider that you’re missing out on a lot of their lives by being unavailable.

As for Sans himself, his signature smile hasn’t weakened, but his back looks... more tense. Like he’s expecting a comment.

You can empathize.

“Thanks for the lemonade.” You reply quietly, and purposefully sidestep any acknowledgement of Sans’ habits. “This is.. nice. We should do homework like this more often.”

You jump when Papyrus slams his elbows on the table and cups his skull in his hands, a huge smile stretching his jawbones. You can almost see stars in his eyes.

“ _Really?”_

“Um.” Is your intelligent answer, and you shoot a glance at Sans. He grins back. “I, uh... yes. Why not?”

“That’s fantastic!” Papyrus clapped his hands together, and the clatter of bones hitting each other seals your fate. “Why, with my cooking practice, and Sans’ paper grading- we’ll have lots of homework buddy time!”

Ah- now you see your mistake. You’ll never be able to use homework as an excuse to be alone again. Not without explicitly telling them you want to be alone, anyways, and you know you’ll cave.

“Yay.” You force a smile and the pencil in your hand creaks in warning.

“though,” Sans turns to his brother, “i think we’ll all need to focus on our own sometimes. right, bro?”

“Oh, well, yes.” Papyrus blinks at you and then rubs his neckbones sheepishly. “Right.”

Did Sans just...?

“Well, in any case, you just let us know when you have need of our skills!” Papyrus recovers quickly and gives a firm nod.

“Oh, of course.” You reply. “I’m... really grateful. To both of you.”

“I shall fetch a book, then! I may not have much in the way of written homework, but that doesn’t mean I can’t broaden my mind in other ways.” Papyrus stands and hums as he disappears down the hall and into his room. He leaves you and Sans alone at the table, and the latter takes the opportunity to slouch into his chair.

“Sans? Um, thanks.” You force yourself not to mumble, and Sans quirks his browbone at you. You swallow and continue, “For, you know. Helping me with this, and... for saying it’s okay to study alone.”

“nah, don’t sweat it.” He shrugs and taps the table with his phalanges. “the homework’s got more to do with me than you, and paps is just... excited to have you around.”

“I can’t figure why.” You reply dryly. “I’m hardly the life of the party.”

To this, both of Sans’ browbones shoot upwards. “was that a sense of humour i just heard?”

You flush. Are you _that_ much of a killjoy? “Well, I mean... I do like jokes. You know that. It wasn’t... you know, inappropriate, was it?”

Sans barks out a laugh, deep and throaty. It relieves the lump in your throat; at least you didn’t offend him. “course not, kiddo. m’just surprised; it’s nice to hear what you sound like when you’re having fun.”

Fun? Homework isn’t what you’d call fun- especially math- but his observation makes you pause. You’ve certainly had a few moments of stress and unease, but a brief look at the clock on the wall tells you that it’s been nearly two hours now since Sans came out of his room. Normally even an hour takes forever, but you barely noticed it this time.

You meant it when you told Papyrus this was nice. You just didn’t expect to... relax, as much as you have.

“I... guess I am.”


End file.
